Chance Encounter IV: Legacy of the Third Age
by Telcontar Rulz
Summary: AU. In 437 BC, A Maia went to Germany to hide a treasure. Now, in 1194 AD, a cardinal has discovered the legend of this treasure. His only link to it is an old manuscript and someone who has been to Middle Earth and returned to Europe. Multi X-over.
1. Prologue

**Chance Encounter: Legacy of the Third Age**

**Note: **This is the fourth instalment of the _Chance Encounter_ series. The previous instalments are _Chance Encounter_, _Chance Encounter: Pirate Kingdom of Troy_ and _Chance Encounter: Return to Middle Earth_. It is recommended that you read those before you read this one, or else you'll be very confused. On the other hand, if you're interested in this story but can't be bothered reading all the previous ones, send me a message (complete with a way for me to send a reply to you) and I'll send you a summary of the previous instalments.

* * *

_Finwë was King of the Noldor. The sons of Finwë were Fëanor, and Fingolfin, and Finarfin...Fëanor was the mightiest in skill of word and of hand, more learned than his brothers; his spirit burned as a flame...He became of all the Noldor, then or after, the most subtle in mind and the most skilled in hand...he it was who, first of the Noldor, discovered how gems greater and brighter than those of the Earth might be made with skill. _

J.R.R. Tolkien, _The Silmarillion_.

**Prologue**

_**Germany, 437 B.C. (1349, Third Age)**_

The wind and the rain lashed his body. His drenched robes stuck to his skin. The old man cursed and struggled to free his beard from a bush which seemed determined to trap him. Asatarë had never thought that he would need to take a mortal form. He had been quite happy in Aman, not enquiring about anything which was happening in the East and focusing on his arts with the wind and the air. However, Manwë had had other plans for him, and one did not refuse Manwë. Asatarë had been surprised when he had heard that he had been summoned. Although he was a Maia, he did not have the great power or wisdom of the likes of Melian and Olorin. (1)

Lightning lit up the sky, and more rain poured down. Would this dratted storm ever stop? The canopy of the forest gave him little shelter. Small droplets gathered on the leaves and became bigger droplets. In the end, Asatarë ended up as wet as he would have been if he had been travelling out in the open.

Under his arm, he clutched a chest of metal. Manwë had entrusted the chest and the item inside it to him. It was his task to keep it hidden. 'Why in this cold, wet and miserable place though?' wondered Asatarë. Perhaps the Vala had thought that this would be a safe place, being somewhere in the middle of the wilderness and in a world which no one, save for Eru and the Valar, knew about. But did it really have to be somewhere so wet?

And his treasure? On its own, it was almost useless. That son of the Noldor, Fëanor, had made it before he had made the Silmarils, and it was one of four jewels. "Alone, they have not the power to do much," Manwë had said. "Together, they are a force to be reckoned with, if they should fall into the wrong hands." The Maia did not know who else had been sent to guard and hide the other artefacts, but he pitied them, just as he pitied himself.

"Who knows?" he told himself in an attempt to be optimistic. "Maybe they have ended up somewhere even wetter and colder." He longed to light a fire, but he had no means to start one without using his otherworldly skills, and that would attract far too much attention. Who knew what dwelt here in this dark forest? He did have a tinderbox, but no fire would be able to burn this soaking wood.

Asatarë was so occupied with his predicament that he did not notice that he was being watched, that was, until he felt something prodding his back, and heard a harsh guttural voice saying something in a language which he did not understand.

* * *

The group of barbaric warriors escorted Asatarë back to the village. Their bodies were completely covered with tattoos, and it was hard to tell what colour skin they had. The village was a cluster of 

low buildings built out of wood, and with thatched roofs. The Maia glared at them, wishing that he had a more sinister appearance.

One of the warriors shouted something. The villagers came out to see what the commotion was all about. All Asatarë could see was the gleam of their eyes. It was rather dark; these people did not seem to be fond of torches or lamps. Someone pushed through the gathered villagers. As he drew closer, Asatarë deemed that he was their leader, for the warriors dipped their heads in deference to him. The leader barked out something. Before the Maia knew it, someone had snatched the chest and the jewel from him.

"Give me that!" said the Maia, but since he did not appear too impressive, no one paid him any heed. The leader shook the chest. On seeing that there was something inside, he and his warriors tried their best to open the lock. The Maia wished he could do something to deliver himself, but he wasn't supposed to use his skills to harm people, not unless they were harming him. And while they had captured him, these people did not seem interested in injuring him. "That comes from Aman, do you hear me? Aman!"

The leader growled, and with one swift move, grabbed Asatarë by the neck, causing the Maia to drop his staff in surprise. He jerked his head in the chest's direction. The meaning was clear; he wanted Asatarë to open the chest. Without his staff, he was helpless, and the Maia had no choice but to do as he had been commanded. 'Manwë will not be pleased,' he thought. He opened the chest.

"Don't you dare touch it," he told the gathered people. "It's dangerous. It's from Aman." That didn't make much sense, but the Maia was just saying it for the sake of saying something. They didn't understand him anyway.

There was a collective gasp. From inside the chest, light issued forth. The jewel was glowing. "_Isil_," said Asatarë. That was the only thing he could think to say to them, and speaking to them made him feel more secure, as if he was somehow in charge.

"Ah-mahn," said the leader, not taking his eyes off the jewel, but making no move to take it out of the chest. "Ee-sihl." He pronounced every syllable slowly and deliberately, as if he was having trouble forming the sounds.

The villagers copied him, mangling the pronunciation. Asatarë didn't care. While his captors were occupied, he was inching towards his dropped staff. It was within his reach. The Maia grasped it. Manwë's plans were not about to be foiled by a group of enraptured barbarians. He pointed his staff at the leader. An unseen energy threw the man away from the chest and the jewel within. He flew back a few feet.

Panicked shouts were raised. All eyes turned to Asatarë, and he could sense their fear. Secretly, he was glad that it did not take much to intimidate them. Keeping his staff trained on the chief, Asatarë closed the lid of the chest and locked it again. No one moved, except the leader of this village. He got up, and then he did something which Asatarë had not expected. He bowed to the Maia, and the rest of the tribe followed his example.

From that day onwards, Asatarë stayed close to this tribe. The people seldom saw him, but all knew of him and his miraculous shining jewel. They believed he was a servant of their gods, and he did nothing to disprove that. The chief ordered a tall pillar to be built to house the jewel. The Maia could hardly object. These people were naive; they did not know what the jewel really was, and they had treated him well after his first encounter with him. There was no reason not to go along with their plan. They called the pillar the 'Tree of Life,' for it was built in the shape of a tree, and they believed that the shining jewel which it housed gave it life. For them, it was a link between the mortal realm and that of the gods. As for the jewel, they called it by the two words which Asatarë had used to describe it. Since they could not pronounce the Quenya, it gradually became known as the Irminsul.

Over the years, the tale of the jewel and Asatarë was all but lost, but the pillar remained. Irminsul, rather than being the name of the jewel which it housed, now became the name of the pillar instead. It hardly mattered to these primitive tribes. They came here to worship, and to ask favours of their gods. Asatarë watched this from afar, always on guard for anything that might threaten that which he guarded.

* * *

_**Germany, 772 A.D.**_

The trees were burning. The screams of horses and men were drowned out by the clamour of clashing weapons and colliding shields. The roar of war broke the tranquillity of the forest. In the midst of it all was a young man. His short fair beard was stained with the blood of his enemies. Red dripped from his blade. He shouted in Latin to his troops, and they surged forward, encouraged by his presence. His name was Charles, and he was the King of the Franks. Charles was a man of ambition, and his wish was to expand his rule beyond the borders of Neustria and Austrasia. The barbaric pagan Saxons of Germania were one of his main adversaries.

"For God!" he cried, raising his sword. And he truly believed that he was fighting for Christ, for was it not the duty of all Christians to convert the pagans and to turn them from their evil ways?

Asatarë could see the fires of war getting closer and closer to the pillar which housed the jewel. It was no longer safe. It pained him to see people with whom he had lived so long being destroyed, but Manwë had given him very clear orders not to interfere with the affairs of this world. "This world," the Vala had said, "is out of our jurisdiction, and you, as our servant, would do well to keep away from the business of the inhabitants. Otherwise, Iluvatar will be most displeased. We do not want to incur his wrath."

The Maia did the only thing he could do. He went to the pillar and retrieved the jewel, still inside its chest. Then he vanished into the dark forests of Germania. He did not go where he ought to go; he only knew that he had to get away from here.

* * *

Charles regarded the tall pillar, built in the shape of a tree. It sickened him. How could these people be so ignorant? Such pagan beliefs could only lead to Hell and the Devil. "Sire," said one of his captains. "I have asked the old women. They say that this is called the Irminsul, or the Tree of Life, and it is a link between Man and the pagan gods. What should we do about it?"

"Tear it down," commanded Charles. "Let it be known that no pagan demon shall withstand the might of Christ and His followers."

The soldiers hurried to obey. "What do you think, Einhard?" said Charles to his close friend and adviser. The little man beside him beamed.

"The world will remember this day," said Einhard. "The greatest of Caesars could not defeat the Saxons and destroy their pagan ways. You have surpassed them all, my lord." In his mind, Einhard was already forming a plan. It was not something particularly exciting, at least not to other men. He memorized every event of this day. When he was old, he planned to write a book about his liege, Charles the Magnificent. No one should ever forget this great Christian victory.

* * *

**A/N: **This is just the prologue. The first chapter should be up _very_ soon. If that made you totally confused, send me a message, and I'll attempt to either explain it, or fix up the prologue so that it's comprehensible.

**Historical note: **In 772 A.D., Charlemagne, or Charles the Magnificent, did destroy something called the Irminsul. We don't really know anything about it, besides its name.

(1) Olorin was Gandalf's real name.


	2. France

**Chance Encounter: Legacy of the Third Age**

**Disclaimer: **Forgot this in the prologue. I don't own anything that you recognize. They all belong to their respective creators and History.

**Note: **For Balian's personal history, watch _Kingdom of Heaven_, Director's Cut, and read my other story, _Prelude to Heaven_. That is, if you want to. If you don't want to watch the movie and/or read the story but still want to know, you can contact me.

**Chapter 1: France**

If he had not been in such a dire situation, Balian would have laughed. He looked around at the familiar rafters. There were holes in the thatched roof. It had always been his task to maintain the roof. Nièvre; his own birthplace. After all his journeys throughout numerous strange lands, he had come full circle and returned home.

In his arms, his son shivered, pulling the man out of his reverie. If Balian did not do something soon, both he and his son would freeze to death. Wet clothes did nothing to keep them warm, and he had no means to make a fire.

But who could he go to? The first person who came to mind was Thomas, his childhood friend. He quickly dismissed the idea. He didn't exactly want Thomas to declare to the whole world that he was alive. After all, he was a man of controversy; he had surrendered Jerusalem to the Saracens. Furthermore, he was a fugitive in this area. Eight years ago, he had killed the village priest, his brother, and then fled to the Holy Land. For all he knew, they were still looking for him.

His thoughts turned to Arnaud, who was the brother of his first wife, Jocelyn. The carpenter had been his comrade when the lord of Nièvre, Reginald, had ridden to war against a neighbouring lord.

"Come on, _mon petit_," said Balian to his son. "Wake up! Don't go to sleep just yet. This is not the right place."

"But I'm sleepy, Papa," protested Barisian, snuggling up to his father in an attempt to keep warm.

"No, no," said Balian. "You cannot go to sleep. Not yet! We'll get you some food and some dry clothes, and then you can sleep." Balian hurried out of his old rundown cottage and hurried down the dirt path in the direction of Arnaud's workshop.

* * *

_Two years later..._

_**France, Nièvre**_

The sun's golden rays slowly reached over the horizon, spreading colours over the land as they dispersed the darkness of night. Dew glittered on the blades of grass in the meadows, as if someone had scattered diamonds on the ground during the night. The air was crisp, but the cloudless sky promised another hot day.

In the castle of Nièvre and the village below it, men and women were beginning to wake up. Some of the more industrious matrons hurried out of their cottages to fetch water from the well for their families. Pennants flew from the battlements of the castle. One man stood on the wall; he had been waiting for the sunrise.

Balian enjoyed the peace and tranquillity of the hours before dawn. For those few brief moments, he could forget that he was a lord, and simply be a man. At times, he could almost imagine the breezes whispering to him in the cool darkness, but he could never decipher whatever message they were carrying, if indeed they were saying something to him.

Time had passed so quickly, and so much had changed. Two years ago, he had returned to this village with nothing but his son and what he had had on his person when they had been shipwrecked off the coast of Gondor. And now, he was the baron of Nièvre.

A few days after he had returned, Reginald, the old lord, had found out that Balian was back. Balian was Reginald's closest kinsman, being his illegitimate nephew, as Balian's father had killed Reginald's heir. Reginald, although he had no love for his brother's bastard, was not so keen on letting King Philippe take his fief. The old lord had searched out his nephew and made him his heir. A few months later, Reginald had succumbed to his illness, leaving Balian as his successor.

It felt strange for Balian to think of Reginald as his uncle. For the first twenty-five years of his life, Reginald had been his lord, and a man whom he'd had to respect, no matter how corrupt Reginald had been. Balian had always been a commoner, a blacksmith who had only been good for building siege weaponry and shoeing horses.

Even harder to accept was the fact that Reginald's son, the late Luc, had been Balian's cousin. His first wife had suffered greatly at Luc's hands, and Balian was certain that Luc's actions had played a part in Jocelyn's suicide. Luc was dead and cold in his grave now, but Balian still could not find it in himself to forgive his cousin.

"Papa!" came a shout. Balian turned to see his son running towards him. He held out his arms, and Barisian leapt into them. Balian grunted. His son had grown quite a bit over the past year. Soon, he would be too heavy for this sort of activity.

'I'd better enjoy it while I can,' thought the man. "Good morning, _mon petit_," he said, lifting his son up and kissing the boy on the cheek. The boy giggled.

"Stop it, Papa," he said. "It tickles! You have a hairy face."

"Is that how you talk to your father?" said Balian, pretending to be stern. Somehow, he could never intimidate his son, and he still did not know why.

"Aye," replied Barisian without even the slightest hint of hesitation.

"No, not 'aye'," said Balian. "Here in France, we say 'yes'."

"But I wanna be a pirate!"

"You are definitely _not_ going to be a pirate. No son of mine will ever be a pirate, savvy?"

Barisian laughed again, and Balian could not help but smile at his child's joy. "You don't sound like Uncle Jack-Jack," said Barisian. "He doesn't say 'savvy' like that."

"Good," said Balian, setting the boy down. "I don't want to sound like Jack Sparrow."

"It's _Captain_ Jack Sparrow, remember?" said the boy as the two of them went into the great hall to break their fast. "He always tells you that, and you keep on forgetting."

The servants bowed to them as they passed, and Balian acknowledged their greetings with a nod. The threshing on the floor was fresh, and the sunlight made the interior of the castle seem less gloomy. Barisian stayed close to his father; he was convinced that there was a ghost in this part of the castle. The smell of freshly baked bread greeted them as they neared the door of the great hall.

"Master Barisian!" came a woman's voice. "There you are!" It was Barisian's nurse, Marguerite. The woman's face was red and sweaty from exertion, and her hair was escaping from her kerchief.

Balian looked down at his son and raised an eyebrow. Barisian grinned back at him, his face bearing an angelic expression. Why was it that his son seemed to enjoy vexing his poor nurse? Marguerite was a homely woman who had not been given a great deal of wit, but she was honest, and Balian trusted her. She just couldn't keep Barisian within her sight.

"Um, I was in a hurry," explained the boy. "I was looking for you, Papa, see?"

"Not really," said Balian. "Try not to drive your nurse mad, Barisian."

"I'm so sorry, milord," said the flustered Marguerite, curtseying to Balian. "I'd just turned around to tidy the bed, and when I looked up again, I couldn't find Master Barisian."

"It's not your fault, Marguerite," said Balian, giving her a reassuring smile to show her that he did not fault her for his son's mischief. Inwardly, he sighed. Barisian was becoming more and more like his surrogate uncles every day. Certainly, Balian had not been the one who had taught him how to make diabolical plans and to carry them out. Perhaps it was time to get the boy a tutor. He was six, after all. Under his father's tutelage, he had learned how to read a little and to write his name, but there was only so much that Balian could teach his son. A lord's son needed to know more. Education never hurt anyone.

"Really, Papa," said Barisian when his nurse was out of earshot and they were seated at the table, "Marguerite's very boring. She doesn't let me run or jump, saying that I'll get hurt or something." He took a long drink from his cup of milk, leaving a white moustache on his upper lip. The boy wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

"She's just worried about you," said Balian, trying to be reasonable, although he did think that not letting a little boy run or jump was too much. Little boys liked to play, and they had to play. How else were they going to learn and grow up to become men? He cut a slice of bread, spread precious golden honey over it, and then handed it to Barisian. The boy stuffed the bread into his mouth and chewed noisily. His father didn't mind too much. To him, table manners were not that important, unless one was dining with a lady.

"You let me run and jump and you still worry about me, don't you, Papa?" said Barisian after he'd devoured his bread and honey.

"Of course!" said Balian. "I'm your father. I'll never stop worrying about you, not even when you're a grown man with a wife and children of your own."

Barisian wiped his sticky fingers on his shirt. That did not really improve the situation; he only succeeded in getting honey everywhere. The laundry women really did have to earn their keep in this castle. He made a face at his father. "Bleurgh," he said. "I don't like girls, and I won't ever marry one."

"Not even if she was beautiful and sweet?"

"Auntie Arwen's the beautifullest woman," insisted Barisian. "No one can be more beautifuller than her. And I've tasted girls. They are not sweet."

"How do you know?" Balian was appalled. His son was only six, for God's sake!

"I bit Jane Turner once," admitted the boy. "She wouldn't give me back my wooden horse." Seeing the expression on his father's face, he decided that confession was a bad idea. "It was a long long time ago," he added quickly.

* * *

Documents were piled high on his desk. The room was hot and stuffy. Balian wiped his brow with his ink-stained hand. He glanced out the window, wishing he could just go out and forget about all this administration, but it had to be done if the people of Nièvre were to continue to live in peace and prosperity. The village below the castle had grown so much that it was almost a town, and there were other villages slightly further away. More people meant that administration became more complicated.

He held up the map. There were many other lords surrounding him, and Nièvre was not strong enough to fend off all of them on its own. He needed an alliance. Recently, he had heard that a neighbouring lord, Roger de Cormier, had been looking for suitors for his daughter. Roger had long been an ally of Nièvre, but if his daughter married another lord, then his allegiance would surely change; Balian could not let that happen. There was only one solution, but that meant he had to do something which he was most reluctant to do. He would have to ask for Agnes de Cormier's hand in marriage.

The baron threw down the map in frustration and then closed his eyes. Images of Sibylla manifested. He saw her laughing, smiling; God, he missed her so much. How could he marry another woman when he still loved her?

'What about your people, Balian?' asked a voice inside his head. 'They need this alliance, or else Nièvre will be taken over by other men who are crueller than you.'

"God, help me," he whispered. He wasn't ready for another wife yet.

* * *

_**France, Cormier**_

Agnes of Cormier was not a remarkable woman to look at. She had pale skin and hair, and a stern humourless expression. She also had a bit of a temper, and that was the key to her father's troubles.

"Agnes," said Roger tiredly, rubbing his gnarled hand over his face. "Will you please stop driving your suitors away with your sharp tongue, girl?"

The girl pursed her lips. "He couldn't even read," she said. "Do you really expect me to marry a fool like that?" She gave a dry laugh. "If he can't even think of a clever rebuttal to defend his manhood, then he isn't worthy of being called a man."

"Whether he is worthy of being called a man or not is none of your business," said Roger. "It's unseemly for a woman to speak like that, and I'll never find you a husband that way."

"I don't want a husband," said Agnes, glaring at her father. "And I don't need one." She clutched a Bible with a leather cover to her chest. "Ever since I had been a little girl, you had said that I would go to a convent. I am happy to serve Christ and be His bride."

"That was before your brother got himself killed," said Roger through gritted teeth. He clenched his fists, reminding himself that he shouldn't hit his daughter, in case he damaged her. What man would want a defective wife? "You _will_ marry," he said at last. "And you will be married within the year. I would rather my lands went to a man of my choosing than to that young wolf on the throne in Paris!"

Threatening Agnes was easy. Carrying out the threat was not so easy. Where would he find a man brave enough to wed his daughter? As if God Himself had taken pity on him, a messenger walked in through the door and bowed to Roger. "A letter from the baron of Nièvre, milord," he said, handing Roger a folded piece of parchment which bore a large red wax seal.

The baron of Nièvre? Roger tried to remember his name, and then gave up. It didn't matter; whoever he was, Roger knew that he was young, and Nièvre had always been a good neighbour. He broke the seal and unfolded the letter. As he read it, he could hardly believe his luck. Balian of Nièvre was asking for Agnes' hand.

"Fetch my scribe," he commanded. "I need to reply to my lord of Nièvre." He turned to his daughter. "You cannot stop fate, girl, so you might as well accept it."

Agnes bit her lip as she watched her father go into his study to compose a letter to the baron of Nièvre. Balian, she thought his name was, but she couldn't be sure. She wasn't interested in finding out either. All she wanted to do was to be like Hildegard von Bingen. Hildegard had been one of the most renowned scholars in her time, and there was nothing Agnes liked more than to think about the issues of religion and write about them.

"What is it that you want of me, God?" she asked softly. There was no answer.

* * *

_**France, Nièvre**_

The stalks of the wheat were bent by their heavy heads, still not yet ready for harvest. It would be a good one this year, and no one would starve during the winter. At least, Balian hoped not. The leaves on the trees were still lush and green. Beneath him, his horse felt as if it wanted to go to sleep. He nudged it with his heels just to remind it that he was riding it. The animal snorted and shook its head, as if it was feeling annoyed with its rider. It probably was.

The man glanced back at the castle. Barisian stood with his nurse at the gate, still waving. His son had wanted to go with him to Cormier, but since Balian was going to see his prospective bride, it did not seem such a good idea to bring another woman's child along. He could not deny that he was feeling nervous. After all, he was asking for the hand of a girl who was half his age. Agnes was only seventeen; marriageable, yes, but still a child.

Balian waved back to his son. He could only hope that Agnes of Cormier would not resent Barisian's presence.

* * *

_**France, Cormier**_

Roger de Cormier welcomed Balian personally into his fortress. "Lord Balian," said Roger. His smile was so wide that it almost split his wrinkled face. Balian thought it could not be genuine. No one could smile like that and not be hiding something. "At last, we meet."

"The pleasure is mine, Lord Roger," said Balian, dismounting. Cormier was not so different from Nièvre, although there was less cheer in the air. The people feared their lord, but they did not love him. The children of Nièvre had often run after Balian on those rare occasions when he'd walked in the village, just simply talking to the villagers and asking them about their lives. The children of Cormier had kept their distance and watched him with wide eyes. When he had smiled at them, they had run away, unsure of what to make of him.

Grooms led his horse away to the stables. "You must be tired," said Roger, ushering him inside. "I have asked the kitchens to prepare a humble feast."

"You needn't have," said Balian. "Bread and cheese would have been fine."

"Oh no," said Roger. "The lords of Cormier spare no expense in welcoming their guests." He leaned in closer to the younger man. "And the king's envoy has just arrived. Even if you didn't want that feast, I have to prepare it for him."

"The king's envoy?" said Balian. Philippe was certainly wasting no time in trying to absorb all the fiefs into the royal principality.

Roger nodded and grimaced. He had no fondness for Philippe, but what could he do about it? King Philippe Auguste of France was not a man to be trifled with.

* * *

Agnes' maid, a cheerful girl by the name of Heloise, rushed into Agnes' chamber, where the lady was reading. "He's here!" she said, gasping for breath. Her face was red with excitement. "Lord Balian of Nièvre is here!"

Agnes looked up from her book. "What's all the fuss?" she said. "He's just a man."

"But don't you want to know what your future husband looks like?" asked Heloise. Sometimes, she didn't understand her mistress. Agnes was seventeen, but she acted as if she was a woman of forty.

"I saw him, milady," said Heloise, trying to interest Agnes. Roger had sent her to fetch his daughter, and she would be punished if she failed to complete even this simple task. "He was very handsome, with dark hair and skin like a Spaniard. But do you know what I liked most? I liked his eyes. They were so warm—I could look at them forever."

"Did my father send you?" said Agnes. She sighed and closed her book. Balian was probably not any more handsome than her other suitors. People always tended to say that lords and their kinsmen were handsome, but it was not true. Most of them were fat, and had less wit than a pigeon. "I suppose I will have to go down and greet this Balian of Nièvre then, whether I want to or not." She smoothed her skirts with her hands.

Heloise watched her mistress dubiously. "You are not going down like that, are you, milady?" she said.

"Why not?" said Agnes. "Am I not presentable?" True enough, her brown dress was not pretty at all, but it was comfortable. With a veil, she would look like a pious daughter of God.

"It's not that..." began the maid, but she trailed off when she could not think of anything that would not offend her mistress. "At least let me put some ribbons in your hair."

"You know I hate such superficiality," said Agnes. "This is what he's getting, and I might as well let him see it tonight."

* * *

When Agnes de Cormier first laid eyes on the man beside her father, she almost turned around and ran back to her chambers. Was Heloise blind? Why, that man might be dark and swarthy like a Spaniard, but his jowls were loose and his eyes bulged, like that of a frog's. From his exaggerated movements and blubbery lips, Agnes could deduce that he probably had not the intelligence of her favourite hound.

"Milady, what are you doing?" whispered Heloise.

"If that's Balian of Nièvre," Agnes whispered back, indicating the man who was still speaking with her father, "I'll go and throw myself off the battlements now. I would rather suffer the fires of hell than be married to him."

"Him?" said Heloise. "Oh no, that is _not_ Lord Balian. Look to your father's left, milady."

Agnes followed her maid's directions. There, staring at the ceiling and looking as happy as she was, was a much younger man. The first thing she noticed was that he was tall, and his attire was almost like a commoner's; it was so plain. There was no embroidery on it. For all she knew, he could be a commoner. However, the sword which hung on his belt said otherwise.

"He doesn't seem too bad," said Agnes. "And he looks bored."

"He probably is," said Heloise. "Isn't he handsome, milady? You should count yourself lucky."

"I suppose he would be called handsome," said Agnes reluctantly, "but he must be almost thirty."

"He'll be thirty-five in a month or so, actually," said Heloise. "I heard his attendants talking about it."

"Thirty-five, and still without a wife?" said Agnes. Her innards felt as if they had turned into lead. Perhaps there was something very wrong with him after all. How could a handsome man with such a rich inheritance _not_ have a wife?

"I think he did, once," said Heloise. "He has a son."

"But what happened to her?" asked Agnes. Images of dead women in dungeons flashed before her eyes. It was highly possible, wasn't it? "Do you think he...did something to her?"

"Don't be silly, milady. Does he look like the sort who kills his wife to you?"

At that moment, Balian stopped staring at the ceiling and he gazed towards the doorway. His eyes met Agnes', and she immediately stiffened. He gave her a slight shy smile, and then looked away. It seemed as if he was as uncomfortable as she was about this whole business.

Heloise gave Agnes a little shove. "Go on," she said. "You can't stand in the doorway forever."

"God help me," said Agnes, and then she walked in. Her father and the other man stopped talking.

"Ah, Agnes," said Roger. "You're here at last. Come, child." Her father went over to her and took her hand, almost dragging her over to where Balian stood. Her face reddened with humiliation. She felt as if she was simply an animal, and her father was showing her off to a prospective buyer. "Lord Balian, this is my daughter, Agnes de Cormier."

Balian bowed stiffly. "I am pleased to make your acquaintance, milady," he said, sounding as if he had practised this line many times. He probably had, judging from his tone and his expression. "I am Balian of Nièvre."

'As if I didn't already know that already,' thought Agnes. However, she bit back the barrage of sharp retorts. After all, he had been very civil to her, and he was definitely not unpleasant to look at. Remembering Heloise's words, Agnes tried to look at Balian's eyes without seeming as if she was staring at him. She was taken aback by the sorrow and the warmth in them.

"Well," said Roger. "Now that everyone is here, I shall ask the servants to bring in the dishes."

Platters of roasted meats in rich succulent sauces, baskets of soft bread and bowls of fruit were put on the tables. Each person had been supplied with his own pitcher of wine. Agnes, predictably, was sitting beside Balian. She tried to pretend to focus on her meal so that she could observe him better.

The main thing that she noticed about him was that he was very quiet. Even when her father and the other man, the king's envoy, boasted of their hunting successes, he did not join in. "Do you hunt, Lord Balian?" asked Agnes in an unusual stroke of boldness.

"Yes," replied Balian.

Was that it? Would he not speak of how he shot a moving hind from a hundred paces away?

"Of course he hunts, Agnes," said Roger. "He is a man."

"But I must say that I am not very good with the bow," said Balian. There was silence at the table. Not very good? That was a first. All of Agnes' suitors had boasted about their prowess in an attempt to impress her.

"Whatever do you mean?" asked the king's envoy. "A young man like you would surely be good with the bow. After all, you have strength in your arms."

"And elsewhere," said Roger with a wink. The two older men laughed.

"Indeed, compared with my friend, I would look like a child playing with a bow," said Balian. For the first time, he genuinely smiled. To her surprise, Agnes found herself liking this man. She might never fall in love with him, but at least she did not hate him. "My friend can kill two with one arrow."

"You jest," said Roger.

"I do not," said Balian. "First, he would stab an enemy with his arrow, and then he would shoot the arrow. Even if the target was three hundred paces away, he would still be able to hit it."

"Good God," said the king's envoy. "I know for certain that you jest, my lord Balian. That is impossible."

"Perhaps," said Balian. "But never say that something is impossible. I for one know that God has a way of making the impossible possible."

Agnes almost laughed. That was definitely not how most noblemen spoke. He almost sounded like a philosopher. Perhaps Balian was a better man than she had originally thought. He certainly was a bit of a mystery, and Agnes liked the challenge of solving a mystery.

* * *

Agnes was almost sad to see Balian go. He had been good company, even though he had hardly said anything to her. However, when they did speak, she was always pleasantly surprised by his wisdom and his strange ideas concerning religion. She found out that he had been to the Holy Land, but he seemed reluctant to tell her about it. 'If you do marry him, Agnes, you can debate with him every day,' she told herself.

"But I don't want to be subject to a man's whim," she said to no one in particular as she walked beside her prospective husband.

"What was that, milady?" said Balian. "I beg your pardon. I was not listening."

"I...I didn't say anything," said Agnes, for fear of offending him. If she did have to marry, then Balian would not be a bad choice. To drive him away was unwise; who knew what sort of monstrosity her father might consider then?

"Ah yes," said Balian. "There are those times when you wish you can take back your words. Very well, I shall pretend that I heard nothing." He swung into his saddle and took hold of the reins. "Farewell, Lord Roger, Lady Agnes; I feel that we will meet again soon."

'I daresay you will come back for me, and then I will probably be with you every day until one of us returns to the heavenly home,' thought Agnes. A few days ago, that would have caused her great distress, but being with Balian was much better than having to be paraded before suitor after suitor.

* * *

_**Rome**_

In the dark bowels of the Papal palace, amidst the piles of scrolls and old manuscripts, a man, wearing the robes of a cardinal, was poring over a yellowed and disintegrating document. The single candle cast long shadows on the walls of rock and provided very little light. Cardinal Ambrosius de Magio was much too occupied to notice the cold of the room or the lack of light. This could be the greatest discovery in the history of mankind.

_The year three hundred and ninety-nine of Our Lord (the year twenty-two thirty of the Third Age) _

_It is with great excitement and trepidation that I, Lucius Aurelius, write these words. It has been twelve years since I first found myself in the wondrous lands of Middle Earth, a place abound with tales of otherworldly creatures and divine struggles for power. I can scarcely find the words to describe this place, for I find it difficult to convey the image of the sprawling lush plains of Rohan, nor is Minas Tirith comparable to anything else that I know. It is a city of seven levels, built completely of white stone, like a citadel of Heaven. The warriors are clad in shining silver armour, like the angels of God. In the dark bowels of the city, old chronicles reside, and can only be accessed by those who have express permission from the Steward. _

_It was in Gondor that I stayed, and I served the Steward Belegorn, who was the son of Herion. _

_But I digress, for how came I, a citizen of Rome, to this place called Middle Earth? In the year three hundred and eighty-seven of Our Lord, the Emperor Honorius, Caesar most revered, led a campaign against the barbarians of Germania. I was a centurion in the Fifth Legion, proudly bearing the Roman Eagle and the Cross of Christ on my shield, and ready to die for the glory of Christ, who has redeemed us by his blood. _

_We came to a river. It was spring, and the melting snow from the mountains had filled the river to its fullest. There, as we forded the river, the heathen gods took matters into their own hands. I, along with others of my company, was swept away by the fierce icy torrent. Fear filled me, for I felt that I was going to die. I prayed to God, begging him to deliver me from this watery and unholy grave. It seemed like eternity, but it could only have been a few hours. However, my prayers were answered, and I was pulled from the river, only to find myself in a completely different place. _

_It was later that I found out I was in a country called Gondor, and the river which had brought me here was called the Anduin. I know not how this Germanic river became the Anduin, for I now know that they are not the same. _

_The men who had rescued me were good honest fishermen, but they did not have the answers to my many questions. Therefore, as soon as I was well enough to travel, I took my leave of them and went to Minas Tirith. It was said that the city was full of men of lore, and I was certain that they would have answers for me._

_I did not find answers, but I befriended an old scholar who was studying the History of those beings called 'Elves'. I found it hard to believe half of what he told me of these unearthly beings, for how can anything be immortal in both body and soul? However, these were pagans, so I must pardon their lack of understanding. There was one thing which caught my attention. My friend mentioned a smith named Fëanor who had crafted three jewels of unimaginable power, and those jewels could not be destroyed by any means. At first, I believed these jewels, or 'Silmarils', as they were called, to be a mere myth, like the stories of Jupiter and Aphrodite and the other pagan gods of our ancestors before Christ brought the truth to them. My fascination for the Silmarils grew, for I found it curious that someone could craft stone, and supposedly, these Silmarils shone of their own accord. The story of the Silmarils was never far from my thoughts, not even when I was shipwrecked off the coast of Gondor, and miraculously delivered into the arms of my friends who had thought me dead. _

_A year after my return, I, once again, followed Caesar on one of his campaigns against the pagan Germanic peoples. In Germania, I heard the most outlandish stories concerning the 'Tree of Life'. They brought to mind the tale of the Silmarils, for it was said that at the site of the Tree of Life, miracles happened. My friend in Gondor had said that that Silmarils held the trapped light from the Two Trees of a place called Valinor, which was the homeland of the immortal Elves. What if the Tree of Life was in fact the site of one of those missing Silmarils? What if one of those jewels, like me, had passed miraculously between worlds? _

Here, the page stopped. Ambrosius searched and searched for the next page, but he found nothing. Apparently, everything else written by this Lucius Aurelius had been lost through time. The cardinal suppressed the urge to curse like a common man. Looking around to make sure that no one was watching him, Ambrosius rolled up the document and hid it under his robes. He would very much like to read it again to search for any clues which might pertain to the location of one of these jewels. From his studies, he remembered that when Charlemagne had conquered the Germanic pagans, he had destroyed a sacred object called the Irminsul. The chroniclers had written that the pagans had called the Irminsul the Tree of Life.

But what if Charlemagne had not destroyed the Irminsul at all? What if the chroniclers had only said that he had destroyed it to make this great king look good? There was a very large chance that the Irminsul could still be hidden in the heartlands of Germany. It was a pity that Middle Earth was an unknown place. If only someone knew of it...

* * *

**A/N: **Umm...yeah, this chapter was all about Balian and his return to France. I was hoping to cover all of that in one chapter. Next chapter, we'll go back to Middle Earth and see what the others are up to, and then the fun will start when they all come to...yes, Europe! Please bear with me.


	3. A Holy Decree

**Chance Encounter: Legacy of the Third Age**

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything that you recognize.

**Chapter 2: A Holy Decree**

Church bells could be heard all over Rome. The sound of chanting came from the basilica as the people of Rome gathered there to give thanks to God. Ambrosius de Magio was not paying much attention to the Latin prayers; he knew them off by heart, and today, his mind was occupied by much more important matters.

Rumours had reached him, concerning a certain baron in France and the events surrounding him. Not much was known about Balian of Nièvre. He had disappeared ten years ago, supposedly on Crusade. No one had seen him since then, but two years ago, he had returned to his home, and the old lord of Nièvre, Reginald, had claimed that the man was his nephew and had made him his heir. That in itself was not so odd, if the cardinal had not already known about another Balian; Balian of Ibelin. It was very likely that the baron of Nièvre could have been in the Holy Land at the same time as the other Balian. In fact, Ambrosius was almost certain that they were one and the same, and the fact that Ibelin had taken the child of Sibylla of Jerusalem in 1190 and Nièvre now had a son of the same age and with the same name confirmed it.

What made this even more interesting was that Balian's young son, Barisian, often spoke of strange tales about elves and dwarves and odd stones which could help a man to see his future. What if the reason no one had been able to find Balian all these years was because he had been into another world...such as Lucius Aurelius' Middle Earth? It would be interesting to talk to him and see what he knew.

Ambrosius resolved to see the Pope after mass. It would not be hard to get authorization from the Holy Father. Pope Clement III was old and helpless. He made a very good figurehead for the Church, but real authority lay with the College of Cardinals which had elected him. At any rate, he had a valid reason for wanting to arrest Balian of Ibelin or Nièvre or whatever he called himself now. The man had done the most sacrilegious deed possible and surrendered the Holy City to the Infidel Turks. That was an unforgiveable crime, and it could not go unpunished.

* * *

Pope Clement slowly sat down in his chair. His bones ached from standing so long, and he was certain that he could hear his joints creak. The old man let out a sigh and accepted a cup of water from a servant. Who would have thought that he would have become Pope? For more than forty years, he had worked as a deacon, and had expected to remain at that position for the rest of his life.

He glanced around his study. A crucified Christ took up the dominant position on the wall opposite the window so that each morning, the rising sun would see Him.

"Holy Father," said a servant. "Cardinal Ambrosius requests an audience with you."

Clement coughed. "Send him in," said the old man in his thin reedy voice. Truth be told, he feared Ambrosius. He was the most prominent of the Cardinals. Real power lay with him. If Ambrosius wanted Clement to put a seal on something, then Clement would have to put his seal there.

"Your Holiness," said the Cardinal once they were both alone.

The Pope regarded the man. He was tall, with the typical strong Roman profile. His hair, or what remained of it, was steel grey. Everything about Ambrosius was hard and strong; he was a true Roman.

"You asked to see me, Ambrosius?" said the old pontiff.

"Yes, Your Holiness," said Ambrosius, and he proceeded to tell the Pope all about Balian of Ibelin and his sacrilegious acts, purposely omitting anything concerning Middle Earth and the Irminsul. "I wish to send Inquisitors to bring him here to be questioned," he concluded. "Balian of Ibelin has committed treason against all of Christendom, and God's justice must prevail."

Clement pondered it for a while. It sounded rather reasonable, although even if it hadn't been, he would have had to give permission anyway. "You have my consent," he said. "And send word to Philippe of France as well. He will help you."

* * *

King Philippe of France, called Auguste by his people because of the expansion of his power over the royal principality's neighbours and his ambition, was surprised to receive a letter from the Pope which, for once, was not requesting that he make Ingeborg of Denmark his queen. He raised his eyebrow as he read the letter. "Balian of Nièvre?" he said. "Yes, I have heard of him, but can he really be Balian of Ibelin? He is only a minor French baron, and my vassal. How can the defender of Jerusalem settle for so little?"

"Nevertheless," said the papal ambassador, "we still need to bring him back to Rome. We only do the Pope's bidding, Majesty."

"Yes, yes," said Philippe. "Of course. In fact, I shall go with you. If he is Balian of Ibelin as you say, then I should very much like to meet him." It took all of Philippe's control to hide his glee. Balian was not just a minor baron as he had told the papal ambassador. Balian was a distant cousin of his, and a potential threat. Besides, with Balian gone, he would easily be able to absorb Nièvre into the royal principality, thus slowly extending his power over the rest of France and taking back what was rightfully his.

* * *

A beam of sunlight shone through the narrow slit of a window, down on where Agnes sat with her embroidery in her lap. Her needle remained still. There was a half-sewn rose on her piece of fabric, but at the moment, she had no interest in the rich colours of the threads. She found herself thinking about her latest suitor; it was impossible to purge him from her mind. What would it be like to be Balian's wife? He had been nothing less than a gentleman, and better yet, he had shown signs of intelligence. It surprised her that not only did she not feel any animosity towards him, she actually liked him. If she had no way of being a bride of Christ, then she would settle for being Balian's instead.

"You've been very quiet of late, milady," said Heloise as she wiped down the coffer at the end of Agnes' bed which housed all of the girl's books and writing materials. Agnes gave a start.

"I suppose I have been thinking about my impending marriage," she said, fingering her embroidery.

"So you are finally excited," said Heloise, giving her mistress a smile. Agnes was such a strange girl. What sort of young lady would prefer books to ribbons? If given the choice, Heloise would certainly choose the latter. And up until now, Agnes had seemed impervious to the charms of the handsome Lord Balian. That was definitely unnatural.

"I'm not excited," said Agnes. "I'm simply not disgusted at the notion."

"Disgusted? Milady, do you not know how lucky you are? I doubt that you can have a much better husband than Lord Balian. He is kind, and very pleasant on the eyes too."

"Yes, yes," snapped Agnes. "I have seen him myself, Heloise. I know whether he is handsome or not; you do not have to tell me every two hours."

"I just thought you would be happier, milady, seeing as he would make a fine husband."

"Heloise, if you are so keen on him, then perhaps you should marry him. I am quite happy to enter a convent, I can assure you."

The maid was immediately frightened. Agnes did not lose her temper often, at least, not at her. "I apologize, milady," she said, dipping a curtsey. "I did not mean to offend you."

Agnes regretted speaking to her maid so harshly. Heloise had been nothing but a good and loyal friend to her. She had simply wanted to lash out at someone ever since her father had started parading her like a prize cow in front of numerous suitors, and her maid had been a convenient target. "I'm sorry, Heloise," she said, setting down her needlework. She would never be able to concentrate on it now. "It's just that I'm so nervous. What if Balian is simply acting? What if underneath that pleasant facade is a cruel tyrant just waiting to be unleashed?"

"Have some faith, Lady Agnes," said Heloise. "And if there is anything I can do for you..."

"I'll tell you if there is," Agnes assured her. Just then, there was a knock on the heavy wooden door.

"Who is it?" said Heloise.

"It's Thibault," said a boy's voice from the other side. Agnes recognized the young page, and she had often given him sweetmeats. "Lord Roger wants to see Lady Agnes in his study immediately."

Heloise and Agnes looked at each other. Usually, Roger hardly ever mentioned his daughter if he was not talking about something to do with her marriage. What could he possibly want now?

* * *

The air was warm, but that did nothing to stop Agnes from shaking. She clutched the document so hard that her fingertips were white. Balian, a heretic and blasphemer? No, it couldn't be. When she had spoken to him, he had seemed so wise, as if God had taught him directly. However, it all made sense. He had been in the Holy Land, and no one knew the name of his son's mother. Of course he wouldn't have told anyone. He had been Sibylla of Jerusalem's lover.

"It can't be," she said, handing the document back to her father. "He's a good man."

"Nevertheless, you cannot marry him now," said Roger. "He has been excommunicated and the Inquisitors are riding to Nièvre to arrest him as we speak, and the King is with them. The King! Philippe would not go in person if it was not serious. Fortunately, Gregoire of Bourges has made an offer, and I have agreed. You are to marry his son Henri this coming spring."

"No, I will not," said Agnes. "Henri of Bourges probably has six bastards by now!"

"Well, at least we know he can get a son on you," said Roger. His tone was so cold and devoid of compassion that Agnes took an involuntary step backwards. He was a father? How could anyone be so harsh? She fled back to her own chamber, lifting her skirts to avoid tripping on them.

Heloise was immediately concerned when she saw her mistress' pallor. "Lady Agnes, what is the matter?" asked the maid. "You look ill."

"I feel ill," said Agnes. She sat down on the bed, not caring if she crumpled the fresh sheets. No, she could not marry Henri of Bourges, and she did not believe that Balian was a servant of the devil. The poor man probably did not know that Philippe and the Inquisitors were coming for him. As confused as she was, Agnes knew that she had to somehow tell him of the impending danger. It was her duty as his betrothed and his friend.

"Heloise," she said. "Go down to the stables and tell them that you and I are going riding just outside the castle."

"But you don't like to ride, milady."

"Will you just go and do it, please, Heloise? I beg you, do not ask me anything."

* * *

The sun warmed his back as Balian sat just outside the charred skeleton of his old forge, watching his son play in the garden as he had once done. It seemed like such a long time ago, but he had to admit that for someone who had eternity before him, thirty years was not that much. And yet, almost everything had changed. All his mother's plants had grown wild. Roses sprawled over the pathway, almost obscuring it. What would happen in fifty years' time? A hundred years time? Would Christendom continue to launch futile crusades to recover a city which was not really worth recovering? Or would war destroy Jerusalem itself, and thus eliminating the need to fight for it?

His son's voice broke through his ponderings. "Papa!" the boy called. "Come and have some cherries!" Balian gave a start. Barisian was beckoning him over to a tree which stood in the middle of the garden; its crooked branches were dripping with fruit the colour of dark blood. He hesitated.

That tree.

He could still see her clearly in his mind, as if her image had been engraved into his memory. His lovely Jocelyn, with her belly rounded and swollen with child, had planted this very tree as a seedling. There had been a smudge of dirt on her cheek, and her skin glowed with impending motherhood. He had thought himself the happiest man alive then. Who could have predicted that God would have taken everything from him in the matter of a few months?

The man pushed the melancholic thoughts to the back of his mind. His child's face and hands were already stained with the purple juice of the fruit. Jocelyn would have wanted him to taste the fruit of her tree.

"These cherries, they are the best!" Barisian declared, completely oblivious to the fruits' history.

"I thought oranges were the best," said Balian with a smile.

Barisian fell into thoughtful silence. He chewed slowly and swallowed; his expression was one of complete seriousness, and his father had to suppress the urge to laugh. It would be good for the boy to learn to make some simple judgments now; Balian could not tell him forever what to do.

"Well," began Barisian. "It's different, ain't it?"

"_Isn't_ it," corrected Balian. His son duly ignored him.

"Oranges are the taste of the East. That's what your papa said, right, Papa?"

"Yes, my father did say that."

"Well, these cherries are the taste of the West!" Barisian stated this with a flourish, another thing which he had learned from Jack. He held out a fruit to Balian. "Won't you try one, Papa?

Balian took it and tentatively placed it in his mouth. The smooth skin had been warmed in the sun. Juice spurted out as his teeth punctured the smooth taut skin. It tasted of joy and of sorrow, of love and of passion, but not of regret. Jocelyn was at peace now, and Balian knew in his heart that both she and Sibylla were watching over him and Barisian.

Barisian giggled as Balian spat out the fruit's stone. "You spit really far, Papa," he said, his voice tinged with admiration. "Can you teach me?"

"To spit?" said Balian. The boy nodded so earnestly that Balian could not decline.

Father and son spent the rest of the afternoon practising spitting cherry stones.

* * *

Gulls circled above the ship floating leisurely just off the Gondorian shore. A white standard, bearing the White Tree of Gondor, flew from its mast. Foam crowned the waves as they rushed to and fro, crashing into one another as if in an uncoordinated dance, sending up a fine spray of salty water.

Sunlight danced on the water's surface; it was all very calm, but William Turner, former captain of the _Flying Dutchman_, was not comforted by it. Two years ago, his friend had disappeared in this area. All they had ever found had been pieces of the fishing boat which Balian and his young son had been in.

Will clutched the rail and stared across the ocean, willing it to speak to him as it had done when he had been the captain of the _Dutchman_. He needed to know what exactly had happened to his friend. Had Balian survived? And if he had, where was he now?

"What are you thinkin' about, Whelp?" asked _Captain_ Jack Sparrow, sauntering up to the rail, a bottle of rum in each hand. He offered Will one of the bottles in an oddly generous gesture.

Will shook his head. Even after years of being a pirate, he still had not gotten used to the foul liquor. "I'm just wondering about Balian and Barisian," he said.

"I wouldn't think too much," said Jack. "It's just depressin' if you go for the logical explanation. Of course, if you go for the illogical explanation, I'll bet that he's havin' another adventure right now. The only worryin' thing is that he ain't got us to watch his back." The pirate took a swig from one of his bottles of rum.

Elizabeth Swann-Turner saw the two men conversing, and it seemed as if Jack was not accusing Will of being a eunuch, for once, although that should not have surprised her. Jack now had no reason to call Will a eunuch, not when there were two Turner children. Her thoughts wandered back to her son and daughter. How were they faring? She knew she was being irrational; they had Andromache, Helen, the Gondorian royal family and the Gondorian Elite Guard looking after them. Truth be told, she felt as if she ought to be worrying more about the welfare of Minas Tirith, having to deal with two young Turners. Well, perhaps they only had to deal with one. Little Jane was only two, and she was a little angel. Willie, however, was a professional troublemaker, and Elizabeth had no idea where he had inherited that trait from. She conveniently forgot how she had stowed away on a merchant vessel, jumped ship on Tortuga, and finally gotten herself elected as Pirate King.

"He actually seems sober, for once," said Anna-Maria, coming up from behind Elizabeth.

"Who are you talking about?" asked the other woman, although she knew perfectly well who the subject of their conversation was.

"Who else would be otherwise drunk?" said the little brown woman. She wasn't much to look at, but anyone who underestimated her usually learned about their mistake pretty quickly. Anna-Maria cast a fond glance in Jack's direction.

Briseis joined their discussion. She was the odd one out, for up until recently, she had been quite content to behave as her society had expected. However, that was before her society had been eradicated. "Honestly, Anna," said the Trojan woman. "When are you two going to get married?"

"What in the Caribbean are you talking about?" demanded Anna-Maria. She felt her face growing hot. Yes, she had feelings for Jack Sparrow, but he did not seem like the type of man who would settle down with a wife, not even one who shared his passion for sailing and treasure. To a man like him, a wife would seem too much like a cage, and the last thing she wanted was for him to view her as something clipping his wings.

"Stop embarrassing her, Briseis," said Elizabeth. "They'll get married in their own good time. It's none of my business, unless I have to organize the wedding."

"Sorry," said Briseis. "It's just that I've never actually been sailing before, at least, not sailing for pleasure." The last time she had been in a seagoing vessel, they had been escaping from the Greeks. Speaking of Greeks, she looked around for her husband.

Achilles seemed to be arguing with Paris, as he tended to do. At least they were not coming to blows, something which gave her some comfort. At any rate, if the two men did come to blows, Briseis thought that it would be more appropriate to worry about her cousin. Paris' skill with a blade had not improved, not even under the guidance of the skilled swordsman called William Turner. The only things which Paris seemed to have learned, in terms of combat skills, were Jack's dishonourable strategies.

Barbossa was not paying any attention to the conversations. His main concern was the gathering storm clouds. If he had been on the _Pearl_, he would not have worried, but this ship was much smaller and lighter. Would it be able to survive any storm at all?

"Master Greenleaf!" he called, glancing up to where Legolas stood in the crow's nest. "How far be it from land?"

"I don't think we'll manage to get back before the storm reaches us!" replied Legolas. The wind whipped his long golden hair about, causing it to fly into his face. The elf brushed it away. Braids 

were all very well, but right now, he wished he had been sensible enough to tie back his hair at the nape of his neck, as Will had done. It was difficult to see if his hair was forever hitting his eyes.

The gulls had flown away, towards land, where they could weather out the storm. However, their cries still lingered inside the elf's mind. He could imagine this ship sailing west, towards the sunset across a sea of silver glass. There, where the sun finally rested, would be a green shore. His people would be standing there, welcoming him home...

"Laddie, if it's going to storm, then I suggest you get out of there!" said a gruff voice, pulling the elf out of his reverie. Gimli, son of Gloin, stood on the deck, glaring up at his elven friend. Legolas knew that his apparent anger masked his worry.

"All right, Gimli, I'm coming down," he said.

"I don't know why I let you persuade me to go sailing with you," grumbled the dwarf as soon as Legolas' feet touched the deck. "My armour is going to be rusty when we get back."

"No one said you had to wear armour for this," Legolas retorted.

"Aye, but it does no harm to be prepared for all eventualities," said Gimli.

"In that case, I hope you brought grease and grit. You'll need to polish your armour after this."

Before Legolas finished speaking, lightning flashed and thunder rumbled, as if in answer.

"Well, lad!" said Gimli as the roar of the storm grew louder. "You'd best hold on! You're so thin that a wave will probably wash you away!"

"And you too, my friend!" said Legolas. "I'd hate to have to dive to the bottom of the ocean to find you. At least I'll float!"

The waves hurled the little ship around as if it was no more than a toy. Barbossa struggled to steer the ship, but the ocean was too strong, even for him. Before them, a gaping maw of swirling water opened, and the ship was sucked down into the dark depths.

Paris managed to take in a deep breath just before the water closed over his head. There was nothing he could do except hang on to the ship and pray to whatever deity who might be listening. His lungs were beginning to burn. Just as he thought he could not hold his breath for much longer, he felt air on his face again. Something slapped him in the face. The cracking of wood could be heard, and then, everything was still.

Achilles spat out a bad-tasting leaf and wiped water from his face. Why on earth would there be a leaf? The Greek opened his eyes and found himself staring through multitudes of woody green branches.

"Now, how are we going to get down?" he heard Jack say. "It's a bloody long way to fall."

"This is the second time I've seen a boat stuck in a tree," muttered Legolas. "Can't the Valar or whoever organizes this be a little more creative?"

* * *

It was with much joy that Balian returned to his castle, with Barisian sitting on his shoulders and pretending that he was a horse. "Giddy up!" cried the little boy.

"Careful, Bari," said Balian. "You don't want to fall."

"But you won't let me fall, right?" said Barisian, bending down to try and look his father in the face.

"Sometimes, Bari, I can't control everything." With that, he reached up, removed his son from his shoulders and then began to tickle the boy.

"Stop it, Papa!" cried Barisian as he squirmed and laughed. He escaped from his father's grasp and then ran up to the castle as quickly as his short legs allowed him to be. Balian followed him, regulating his pace so that he was always some distance behind his son. However, he increased his speed and overtook Barisian when he saw Marc, his steward, running out of the castle.

"My lord! The King is coming!"

"The King?" said Balian. "Why would he be here?"

"He's here with Inquisitors from Rome," said the steward. "It seems the Pope has issued a papal bull, excommunicating you from the Church and ordering your arrest. What have you done to make the Holy Father do this to you?"

Balian let out a string of curses in every language that he knew. So the Roman wolves had finally discovered that the man who had surrendered Jerusalem to Saladin was alive and well in France, and they were going to deliver retribution.

"What will you do, milord?" asked the steward. Balian was troubled. He couldn't just leave his people to the mercy of the other lords. He glanced down at his son. He couldn't let the Roman wolves harm his son either.

"Marc, take anything that you might need and take Barisian to England," said Balian. "No one will look for him there. Once I have settled my affairs, I will follow you."

"Papa, I don't want to go," said Barisian. "I want to stay with you."

"Do it for me, _mon petit bonhomme_," said Balian, getting down onto one knee so that he could look the boy in the eye. "I'll be there soon." The boy threw his arms around his father's neck and hugged him hard. Balian held onto his son, not ever wanting to let him go and yet for the boy's sake he must. He kissed Barisian's forehead. "Do you remember the code?" he asked. The child managed a teary smile.

"Any one who falls behind is left behind?" he said.

"No, not that one. You're _not_ a pirate."

"Uh huh, I remember the knight's code."

"Good. If you remember that, I'll always be there with you."

* * *

Barisian glanced back at where his father stood on the castle walls. He waved back, even though he was sure that his father wouldn't be able to see him. The little boy tried his best not to cry as he followed Marc, hurrying away from Nièvre. He shouldn't be crying. His father had promised that he would come, just a bit later, that was all.

Then again, why did he feel that his father wasn't really telling the truth?

* * *

Balian watched Barisian disappear on the horizon. At least his son was out of harm's way now; he felt slightly better. He was certain that Marc would look after Barisian. As he gazed west, towards England, he saw a cloud of dust coming from the direction of Paris. Philippe was here, and so were the hypocrites from Rome.

'God,' he thought. 'What is it that you want of me?' He didn't know if God heard him or not. If He had heard the prayer, then He was certainly not in the mood to answer it.

* * *

**A/N: **Finally, I've gotten to the beginning of the good bit. Hope you enjoyed all the background material anyway. Any guesses as to where Legolas and company have landed?


	4. Heretic

**Chance Encounter: Legacy of the Third Age**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything that you recognize. I'm just borrowing them without permission but with every intention of returning them, savvy?

**Chapter 3: Heretic**

The barony of Nièvre was four days' ride from Paris, and Philippe had wanted it ever since he had succeeded his father as King of France. He was the King of _France_, not the King of Paris-and-all-lands-within-a-day's-ride-of-it, although at the moment, he was having trouble convincing his many noblemen to accept that.

Fields of golden ripe wheat surrounded the stone castle on the hill. Peasants with scythes were taking in the harvest, singing as they worked. The serfs looked happier than any other serf Philippe had seen. 'Of course,' he thought, 'if the tales are to be believed, then Balian of Nièvre or Ibelin or whatever he calls himself was once a commoner. It is no surprise that he does care for his people.'

"If this place wasn't ruled by a devil-worshipper, it would actually look like a glimpse of Heaven," muttered one of the Inquisitors.

"I beg your pardon, Brother Paul," said Philippe. "I was not aware that I was a devil-worshipper."

"Forgive me, milord," said the Inquisitor. "I meant Ibelin."

The gates of the castle had not been barred, and Philippe took this to be a good sign. It was not that he could not storm this keep, but that would take too much effort, and the King preferred not to have to ruin the harvest while conquering this place.

"Halt," said one of the guards at the gate. "State your name and your business."

Philippe stared nonchalantly into space as his incensed herald rode up to the guards. "Are you blind?" he demanded. "This is His Majesty, Philippe, King of France and lord of your lord!"

The King was amused when the guard who had spoken visibly whitened and hastily bowed. "For...forgive me, Sire," he stammered. "If I had known, I—"

Brother Paul cut him off in mid-sentence. "Please alert your master that he is under arrest for crimes against Christ and His Church," he said.

The guard looked from Philippe to the Inquisitor, and then back at Philippe again. The young king's face showed no emotion. Yes, Balian was his vassal, but he was also a potential rival. As a man, perhaps he could have sympathy for him, but as a king, he could not afford to pity a man who threatened his hold on power. "Take us to him," he told the guardsmen. "As of now, Nièvre is part of the royal demesne."

Emotions conflicted inside the guardsman. Balian had been good to him, and he could hardly see the baron of Nièvre as someone who would turn his back to God. And yet, here was a king saying that he was guilty. Kings were God's lieutenants on earth. Surely Philippe and the Inquisitors could not be wrong.

"He is within, Sire," he said at last, letting the king and his envoy through the gates.

* * *

Balian sorted through his records, making sure that he emphasized the poverty of Nièvre. That in itself was not the truth, for it was rather well off after two good harvests. However, he knew the lords and he did not want them to wring everything they could out of his people.

His sword was leaning against the desk. The ruby in the hilt glinted in the dim interior of his study. Would it be of any use if the Inquisitors stormed his keep? He was a warrior, yes, but he could not fight so many men on his own.

"Milord?" said a servant in the doorway. "The King has arrived. He awaits you in the great hall." His voice, although still respectful, was laced with hostility. Did they know already?

"Tell him that I shall be there in a moment," said Balian.

"He requests your presence _now_," said the servant softly. All at once, everything was changed. Balian was no longer a lord, but a fugitive, a criminal. His servants no longer saw him as someone who could protect them, and they in turn would not protect him. He was alone in this.

Sighing, Balian strapped his sword to his belt and followed the servant down to the great hall, feeling like a prisoner in his own keep. He tried to tell himself that his servants did not understand, for how could they? They had not been in Jerusalem when Saladin's armies had bombarded them. He ought to forgive them, but he could not help feeling bitter about their lack of loyalty. Hadn't he treated them well enough? He had been fair, and he had worked so hard to make sure that they prospered. Was it all for nothing?

* * *

Philippe was almost taken aback by the plainness of Balian's keep. The tapestries were old, their colours leeched away by time. In contrast, however, the servants were healthy. Where did their allegiances lie? With their lord, or with their King and the Church?

His thoughts were interrupted by the entrance of the subject of his problems. The King regarded the man who stood before him. If not for the magnificent sword which hung from his belt and the noble countenance, he would have mistaken the man for another servant.

Balian regarded his liege lord. Philippe was even younger than he was, but he had known that already. The sovereign of France was fair-haired, and he could be called handsome, but he radiated arrogance, making anyone in his presence feel rather inadequate. The baron refused to be intimidated. "Your Majesty," he said, bowing.

Before Philippe could say anything, the captain of the Inquisitors spoke first. "Balian of Ibelin, you have been charged with heresy and crimes against Christ and His Church," said Paul. "You have been excommunicated and I hereby arrest you in the name of the Pope."

Balian laughed. It was a dry mirthless sound; Philippe could almost admire this man, if he was not a rival. Very few could stand firm in the face of the Church's power. "Heresy?" said Balian. "Crimes against Christ?" He turned to Philippe, challenging him to say something.

The King held out his hands. "The evidence is clear, Cousin," said Philippe. "I can do nothing, for you have condemned yourself with your actions."

"What crimes have I committed against Christendom?" said Balian. "Jerusalem belongs to all, not just to Christians and certainly not to the Pope. I did what I had to do to save the people." He gripped the hilt of his sword so tightly that his knuckles were white.

"So you do admit that you surrendered Jerusalem without a fight," said Paul.

Balian whipped around. In two steps, he was before the Inquisitor. "Without a fight? Do you know how many men lay broken before the gates? Their blood stained the Holy Land, making it unholy. They were tired, hungry, despairing, and yet they fought on until the Muslims were forced to negotiate. You were not there; you do not know how hard we fought."

His piercing gaze made the Inquisitor pause. He could almost believe the man, if only his words were not so blasphemous. "Son of Satan," he said, curling his lip. "Your words are like sweet poisoned tonic which corrupts the hearts of men." He reached out to seize Balian, but the other man was quicker.

In one swift fluid movement, the baron unsheathed his sword; the metal rang as it scraped against the sides of the simple scabbard. He gripped it with both hands and lifted it above his head in a defensive stance, taking a high guard. The other Inquisitors hurried to draw their weapons.

Philippe moved away; this was becoming too messy for his liking. "Cousin, this is not a wise move," he said, wishing that his kinsman was not so strong. He admired the man's spirit, but it made subduing him rather difficult.

"What else would you have me do, _Cousin_?" said Balian, making no indication that he was going to take any heed of Philippe's warning. "I will not let the Roman wolves bite me without shedding blood."

"Then you are a fool, Balian," said Philippe, his voice becoming cold in return. He had been as merciful as he could afford to be, and if Balian was not going to acknowledge his mercy, then there was no need to waste it. "Who do you think you are? Can you, a bastard, take on the might of Rome and the Church?"

"A very wise lady once said that even the smallest person can change the course of the future," said Balian, not taking his eyes off the Inquisitors.

"Inquisitor, I wash my hands of this traitor."

They surrounded the baron, but his desperation made him strong. Blades clashed against one another. For Balian, all that mattered were his sword and those of his enemies. Everything else faded away. In his mind, he called on God for help, hoping that someone would hear his prayer, but he knew that he could not hold on for long. If there was only one man, then he would not have worried, but with so many, it was only a matter of time before they overwhelmed him.

His servants watched from the crowded doorway. Men who had once bowed to him and served him now made no move to help him in his hour of need. Balian was not surprised, although that did not lessen the bitterness of betrayal.

One of the Inquisitors brought a quarter staff down on his unprotected back. He gave a short guttural cry as it hit him with a loud crack. Pain shot through him, and he fell onto his knees. That was all that the Inquisitors needed to converge on him and bind him. He tried to struggle, but he was defeated by their combined strength. The pain in his back almost paralyzed him. They pulled him to his feet and dragged him out of his own keep.

Outside, the villagers had gathered to watch the spectacle. They lined the dirt path. Muffled whispers rippled through the crowd. "Maman, what's happening? Why are they taking Lord Balian away?" asked a child. He was quickly silenced by his parents for fear that he would bring the wrath of the Church down upon them. Balian looked at the rows of familiar faces. His gaze met that of Thomas, his childhood friend. The baker quickly averted his gaze, denying that he even knew him. They all did the same thing; Arnaud the Carpenter, Jean-Pierre, Balian's former apprentice. None dared to acknowledge this man who had once been their friend and protector.

He lifted his head to the sky. 'God,' he prayed. 'I have lost, but do not let any harm come to my son.'

* * *

Marc, the Steward of the baron of Nièvre, had no intention of going against the Church and protecting the spawn of a heretic. Why would he go to Hell for Balian, or for anyone, for that matter? Surely the Pope would reward him for delivering Barisian into the hands of the Inquisitors. At least, he could probably obtain remission for his sins.

Barisian staggered on, unaware of his guardian's intentions. His face was stained with dried tears. He had tried not to cry and to be brave, but he was tired, and he missed his father. All he wanted was to have Balian hold him and tell him that everything was going to be fine. He bit his lip to keep himself from sobbing; he had to be strong. 'Be without fear in the face of your enemies,' he recited inside his mind. 'Be brave and upright that God may love thee. Speak the truth always, even if it leads to your death. Safeguard the helpless and do no wrong.' His father had said that as long as he remembered the knight's code, he would always be with him, but it did not make Barisian feel any better. His father was still in Nièvre, and every step took him further away from him.

The boy was unprepared when Marc suddenly caught him by the back of the shirt and slung him over his shoulder.

"What are you doing?" demanded Barisian, kicking and struggling. "Put me down, ya poxy cur!"

"Quiet, little runt," snarled Marc. "Your father is a fool and a heretic, and you are both going to go to Hell."

"To Hell I am!" said Barisian, not really understanding what he had just said. His uncles had taught him how to curse prolifically, but they had not taught him what the curses meant. The boy simply said it because it felt like the right thing to say in such a situation. "You put me down now, or I'll nail yer gizzards to the mast ya slimy git! The deepest circle offal is preserved for betrayers and immunities!" (1)

The nonsense which had spilled from the boy's mouth made the man pause and let down his guard. That was all the time that Barisian needed to poke Marc's eyes, making the man drop him. As he landed, he remembered his fighting lessons with his Uncle Legless; he slapped the ground and rolled, getting to his feet with ease. Barisian didn't bother glancing back. Instead, he ran for the forest at the side of the road. Perhaps there were ents in that forest, and he hoped that if there were, they would help him.

He heard Marc cursing behind him. The little boy ran as fast as his short legs would allow him to go, but he was already very tired from all that walking. He tripped over a root, falling flat on his face. Strong hands grabbed him by the hair. The boy was stunned for a moment when Marc boxed him around the ears. In all his life, no one had ever hit him before. "If my Papa was here, he would have killed you!" shouted the boy, not bothering to hold back his tears any longer.

"Your father is about to have his head cut off," sneered Marc.

"He isn't!" screamed Barisian, striking out madly, driven on by fear and anger. "You're lying! Papa's going to be all right! He promised! Papa!"

Marc was about to hit Barisian again to silence him, but that was when he felt the tip of something sharp between his shoulder blades.

"I would drop the boy if I were you," said a smooth voice.

* * *

Legolas thanked all the deities he knew that the trees which supported the ship were strong. They had managed to climb from the ship and into the branches, and thus get their feet back on solid ground. The Gondorian ship, however, was still stuck in the forest's canopy.

"It can't be helped," said Paris. "Thank the gods there is no one here to stare at this spectacle. We would have a lot of explaining to do, and I don't think even you can make anyone understand how our ship ended up in a tree, Legolas."

"Of course not," said the elf, still looking at the ship. "You're the negotiator, Paris. I shall leave the talking to you." Legolas patted Paris on the back as the Trojan scowled at him. "You know, I prefer it if you scowl at Achilles instead of me."

"Why should he scowl at me?" said the Greek. "I've done nothing recently to incur his wrath."

"Does Paris need a reason to scowl at you?" said Legolas, turning his attention to their strange surroundings. Where were they? Nothing looked familiar. Even the trees were strange. Legolas tried to communicate with them, but they did not seem to know the presence of the Eldar. The forest was silent, save for the songs of a few birds. Then suddenly, the elf looked around.

"What is it?" asked Paris.

"I hear voices," said Legolas, narrowing his eyes as he identified the direction in which the sound was coming from. "It sounds like a child, and the child is cursing like Jack and Barbossa. I'm going to have a look."

"Wait, you pointy-eared elvish princeling!" said Gimli. "You're not going anywhere without me! Who knows if there's another pretty concubine out there waiting to kill you?"

"We're coming too!" said Elizabeth, unsheathing her sword. When she had heard about the child in distress, her eyes had hardened. A mother's fury was dangerous.

"I wouldn't think of leaving you behind, Lady Turner," said the elf.

* * *

At the sound of that voice, Barisian stopped screaming. Twisting around so that he could see what was going on, he saw a pair of very familiar blue eyes. "Uncle Legless!" he cried. "Cap'n! Uncle Will! And Monkey too!" The sight of his surrogate family gave the boy more courage, and he hit Marc on the head. "Didn't you hear my uncle? Put me down now!"

By now, the steward had been surrounded by a group of very hostile people, all pointing sharp implements at him, whether they were arrows or knives or very slender swords. One particularly short creature with masses of red hair was brandishing an axe. Marc did the only thing he could do and set Barisian on the ground. The boy immediately ran to Barbossa.

"Bind him," said the old pirate, jerking his head in Marc's direction.

"Not to ruin the party," said Jack. "But we ain't got no rope."

"Just tear off his clothes and bind him with the fabric," said Elizabeth. She turned to Barisian and knelt down so that she was at eye level with the child. "What are you doing here? Why did that man want to hurt you?"

"I don't know. Papa said something about a paper bull, and then he told Marc to take me to England, and then Marc grabbed me and hit me, and he said that they're going to cut Papa's head off." The boy started crying again. "It's not true, is it, Auntie Lizzie? Papa's going to be all right, isn't he?"

"I'm sure he will be," said Elizabeth, trying to comfort the boy. "He's a very strong man." She drew Barisian into her arms and hugged him. His face was streaked with tears and dirt, and he sobbed into her shoulder. The poor child was exhausted from his journey and his struggles, and she could feel his fear. She stroked his hair to calm him down. "Shhh, everything's all right now. You're safe with Aunt Lizzie." Elizabeth looked up at Will. His eyes were hard and the skin around his lips was white. If Marc had not hit Barisian, she might have even felt sympathy for the man.

In two strides, Will was before Marc. He grabbed the steward by the front of his shirt and almost lifted him off the ground. "Tell me what happened, and I may spare your life."

In his fear, Marc babbled out everything he could think of. All Legolas understood was that someone wanted Balian dead because he had surrendered Jerusalem to Imad's people. "So where is he now?" demanded the elven prince.

"At...at Nièvre, I think," said the steward. With a disgusted snort, Will released him, and he fell to the ground in a shaking heap. "Don't kill me, please!"

"Begone with you," said Legolas, "and don't let me see your pathetic face again." Marc scrambled to his feet and ran off into the forest, leaving all his supplies behind.

"You just let him go?" said Will.

"I didn't exactly want a prisoner who would be our burden," said the elf, "and he wasn't worth killing. The most important thing now is to get to Nièvre before those questioners do. Jack, give Barisian your compass." Jack gave the elf a sulky look. "Now, Captain Sparrow," said Legolas, mustering the most imperative tone he could. The pirate muttered something under his breath and handed his priceless compass to the boy.

* * *

The darkness of the forest seemed to close in around her. The trees' shadows were getting longer and longer; soon, it would be nightfall, and it seemed that she was no closer to Nièvre than before. Agnes clung on grimly to her horse. She was frightened, yes, but she was also determined to do her duty as Balian's friend and betrothed, and under no circumstance was she going to marry Henri de Bourges. It occurred to her that she was behaving rather like one of those irrational maids in the bards' tales, riding off to find her knight, except she was not in love with Balian, and probably never would be.

"Milady, I don't like this at all," said Heloise from behind her. The maid regretted agreeing to help Agnes on this mad venture of hers. The noblewoman had not mentioned anything about riding through dark forests on their own, and who knew whether there were wolves out here, or worse, bandits? "Perhaps we should go back to Cormier."

"You can return if you want," said Agnes, not bothering to even glance back at her maid. "I need to get to Nièvre. Balian needs to know that the Inquisitors are coming for him, and I need to know the truth."

"What truth, milady?" asked Heloise. She could not go back without Agnes; Lord Roger would kill her. "You read the letter. The Pope has excommunicated him. He's a heretic? Why are you so loyal to him?"

"If I remember correctly, Heloise, I was not the one having romantic dreams about Lord Balian," said Agnes. "He was very civil and intelligent, and I do like him. Just because someone says he is a heretic does not mean that I will believe it. Philippe would do anything to get rid of rivals." It felt liberating to say that of the king. At home, she had not been allowed to talk about politics at all; her father had thought it most unseemly of a woman to know so much about the affairs of men.

Her horse snorted, as if it, too, agreed with Heloise. Agnes' only reaction was to dig her heels into its flanks and urge it on. Deep down inside her, she prayed that her judgement of Balian had not been wrong. There were so many evils in this world, and it seemed that there was not enough good to counter them.

Heloise had no choice but to follow Agnes. She admired her mistress, but sometimes, she wished Agnes was not so stubborn. It made life rather difficult.

The two women, in their haste to reach some sort of civilization before nightfall, were not aware that they were being watched.

The man followed the two riders with hungry eyes. He and his comrades had not tasted female flesh for many weeks, and he longed, no, _lusted_, for it. Here were two women alone; it was a perfect chance. The women stopped their horses to look around, seemingly lost in this forest. It was the perfect chance to strike. The outlaw nodded to his companions, and they crept up, taking care not to alert their quarry.

Agnes screamed as something leapt out from the shadows. Her startled horse reared, throwing her from the saddle in a flurry of skirts. She rolled away to avoid its hooves as it lashed out at the perceived threat. Someone grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet. The scent of unwashed bodies made her want to gag. She could hear Heloise crying out, but she was too occupied with her own problems to help her maid.

"Well, well," said an oily voice. "What have we got here?"

"Let go of me!" she screeched, trying her best to pry the man's fingers from her arm and pull away from him. The other men were on her, and she could feel their hands roaming over her body.

'Oh God...' she thought. Tears of desperation ran down her face as she struggled in vain. Not only had she not been able to help Balian, she had cast herself into a sea of fire as well. Too terrified to do anything else, Agnes let out a sharp scream.

* * *

Legolas heard a scream echoing through the forest. He immediately looked up, alert and ready to fight or flee.

"What was that?" said Will.

"Sounds like a distressin' damsel," said Jack, "I mean a damsel in distress, that is."

"What do we do then?" asked Achilles. The man inside him was screaming at him to hasten to the lady's rescue, but the rational side was telling him that it could easily be a trap.

"Will and Captain Barbossa, you come with me," said the elf. "The rest of you will stay here."

"Why are you takin' the Whelp an' Scraggly Beard?" demanded Jack, offended that he had been left out. "I'm much more better than those two put together, right, Whelp?"

Will shook his head, but there was no time to banter with Jack. He followed Barbossa and Legolas deep into the forest, hoping that the elf knew what he was doing. The dark made it difficult to see much, and Will almost tripped on a tree root, but he caught his balance in time. Legolas seemed to be having no trouble. In the gathering dark, the elf let off the faintest light. It was not enough to light up the path to let anyone see where they were going, but it gave Will some comfort. It also turned the elf into a glow-in-the-dark target.

He needn't have worried about their lack of stealth, or rather, his and Barbossa's lack of stealth. A group of ragged bandits were attempting to ravage two young women. One of them was fighting back as fiercely as she could, but she was most inexperienced. In the dark, all Will could see was a glimpse of long fair hair trailing on the ground as the girl tried to get to her feet and run away. The sight was enough to make his blood boil. Without waiting for any sort of signal, he leapt into the midst of the outlaws, brandishing his sword. He could hear Barbossa's curses, and the whistle of Legolas' arrows.

The bandits scattered in the presence of the three warriors and fled for cover. "Are you all right, miss?" asked Will as he helped the fair-haired girl to her feet. She flinched when he reached out, and he immediately took a step backwards.

Still gasping for breath, the girl nodded and tried to cover herself the best she could with her ripped dress. "They took my horse," she whispered. "And now he's going to die, and I won't ever get to know the truth."

"I'm sure they won't be killin' yer horse," said Barbossa to the girl. "It's valuable, and I know those kinds o' scallywags. They would sell their own mothers if it brought them gold."

"No, not my horse," said the girl. To the elf and men's great discomfort, she began to sob. The other girl whom they had rescued rushed to comfort her, despite being very terrified herself.

"There, there, milady," she said, rubbing the fair-haired girl's back. "We're safe now, and we can go home to Cormier."

"But what about Lord Balian?" said the fair-haired girl.

"Balian?" said Legolas sharply. "You know him?"

The girl looked up. That was when she saw Will's face clearly for the first time. The light emanating from Legolas lit up the young man's features. "Lord Balian?" she gasped. "Can it really be you?"

"No, no," said Will. "I'm Balian's friend, not Balian. We're going to Nièvre to save him." Legolas gave the pirate a sharp look, and Will immediately saw his mistake. Why did he tell the girl so much? It was a stupid thing to do, he knew, and he almost kicked himself for it. Now, he might have just signed his friend's death warrant.

"Do you have a name, miss?" asked Barbossa.

The girl stiffened as she registered Barbossa's presence. She looked as if she wanted to run from the old pirate, but was afraid of what he would do to her if she offended him. "My name is Agnes, good sir," she said in a shaking voice.

"And how do you know Balian?" asked Legolas.

Agnes hesitated again, but she knew she had no choice. These strange men had saved her, and if they had wanted to hurt her, they would have done so a long time ago. "He...I...I was almost betrothed to him," she said softly staring at the ground. "Then all this happened." She looked up at the three men. "He's going to die, isn't he?"

"No he isn't," said the one who glowed. Agnes fancied that he was an angel of some sort, for only angels could glow like that. "Not while we have breath left in our bodies. Well, Agnes, will you come with us to Nièvre and rescue your betrothed?"

"_Almost_ betrothed," said Agnes. "And yes, I suppose I'll have to go with you. If not, I'll have to go home and marry that repulsive Henri de Bourges."

* * *

Agnes sat by the fire which the men had built and regarded the boy who sat opposite her. This was Balian's son, and if she had married Balian, he would be her stepson. Heloise was already asleep, exhausted by their ordeal.

"You should rest," said the little brown woman called Anna-Maria. "We've got a long way to go yet, it seems, and the men want to start at dawn. And that means you as well, Bari, you hear me?"

"I'm going to get bad dreams," said Barisian softly. He drew his knees up to his chin and wrapped his arms around them "I want Papa."

Gimli reached over and placed a gloved hand on his shoulder. Agnes was still not quite sure what to make of the 'dwarf'. He had frightened her at first, with his rough mannerisms, but since he was Balian's friend, she felt as if she could trust him.

"Listen, laddie," said Gimli. "You go and get your sleep. We'll get your father back to you, all right? I promise."

"He promised he would come, but he didn't," said Barisian.

"Of course he will come," said Gimli, squeezing the boy's arm. "He's just going to be late, as usual."

* * *

It was late afternoon by the time they reached Nièvre. Heloise was so tired that she was almost tempted to pretend to faint so that one of the men would carry her, but Agnes was not complaining, so the maid stoically stayed silent and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. She had known from the very beginning that riding out on their own had not been a good idea.

At first glance, Nièvre looked as it always did, peaceful and quiet. Will raised his spyglass to his eye. "I don't see anything terribly interesting," he said.

"What does that do?" asked Agnes timidly, pointing at the spy glass. Legolas had lent her his cloak to compensate for her ripped dress, and she clutched at it as if it was her last link to life.

"This, Lady Agnes, is a spyglass," explained Will. "You look through the smaller lens, and it makes everything seem closer so you can see things better."

The girl was immediately fascinated. If she could see things better with the aid of such an instrument, maybe it would be easier to decipher the meaning of life and all sorts of confusing but fascinating things. "May I?" asked Agnes, holding out her hand. Will handed the spyglass over to her.

"Be very careful," he said. "It breaks easily."

"I won't drop it," said Agnes, putting the spyglass to her eye and training it on the stone castle on the hill. She gasped when she saw the standards, and almost broke her promise to Will.

"What is it?" asked the man, hurriedly taking back his spyglass.

"_La fleur de lys _(2)," said Agnes, swallowing. "Philippe is here. They've taken Balian. We are too late."

* * *

**A/N: **Now, what will our heroes do? And please tell me if Agnes is behaving like a Mary Sue in any way. Her part in the story is almost over, unless she decides to spring some plotbunny on me again, but I would hate to write a Mary Sue, even a minor one.

(1) What Barisian meant to say was "The deepest circle **of Hell** is **reserved** for betrayers and **mutineers**."

(2) _La fleur de lys_ is the symbol of the French Kings during the twelfth century. That is how Agnes knows that Philippe is or has been at Nièvre.


	5. For the Love of a Friend

**Chance Encounter: Legacy of the Third Age**

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything that you recognize. I'm just borrowing them without permission but with every intention of returning them, savvy?

**Chapter 4: For the Love of a Friend**

Balian tried to swallow his despair as he staggered down the path of the village in which he had been born, flanked by what seemed like an entire contingent of stone-faced inquisitors. He stopped to glance back at his keep. Philippe had wasted no time in letting the world know that he was master of Nièvre. The stone castle was still a dark and foreboding silhouette against the pale grey sky, but it was now a symbol of the King's supremacy as well. Standards bearing the golden _fleur de lys_ flew from the battlements.

As his thoughts turned to Philippe, the kinsman and liege who had failed to act as either of them, Balian tasted bitter resentment at the back of his throat. He fervently wished that someone would avenge him, but who would? Barisian was just a boy, and the last thing Balian wanted to do was to give his son the burden of hatred. Christ had said to turn the other cheek, but could he really just let this betrayal go? He did not think that he could do it; he was only a man after all.

The Inquisitor behind Balian gave him a shove. The man, not expecting it, stumbled and fell to his knees. His back throbbed from where he had been hit with a quarter staff, and even the slightest movement caused him pain. He bit back a groan; no, he could not let them break him. If he was to die, then he would have a death worthy of a knight. Gritting his teeth, he got onto his feet again, lurching as he did so. His body felt as if it just wanted to drop and the pain in his back was getting rather difficult to bear.

He glared at the Inquisitor called Paul as the man bound him to a horse. "Don't blame me, heretic," said the Inquisitor. "It was you who turned from God first."

"And do you have the right to deal out death and judgement?" said Balian. "Cast the stone if you must, but you might want to be sure of your own innocence."

"I am not here to judge you. The Holy Father is God's representative on Earth. He alone has the right to judge you."

"And how holy is the Holy Father, I wonder?" Bound and defenceless, he could not evade the blow. Paul's gauntleted hand struck him on the side of the face, making his head snap sideways. The metal scored the skin on his cheek, and the force of the blow split his lip. Balian squared his jaw and stared straight ahead, refusing to be daunted by the show of sheer force. He had borne worse tortures than this. Could they give him anything which he had not endured?

"You would be wise to show your respect," said the Inquisitor curtly. When Balian did not answer, he curled his lip back in disgust. "Devil-worshipper," he muttered under his breath. "You will regret all the crimes which you have committed against God."

* * *

Legolas slammed his fist into his palm. "Where would they have taken Balian?" he asked. The sun filtering through the foliage cast dappled shadows all over them as they sat on the forest floor, discussing their next plan of action. The only answer the elf got was the rustling of leaves in the breeze. "Well?" he demanded, turning to Agnes.

"I don't know," said the girl, flinching under the elf's sharp blue gaze. "They could have taken him to Paris, or kept him in the dungeons, or..."

"Or what, Agnes?" said Elizabeth. "Please, tell us quickly. A man's life is at stake."

"They could be taking him to Rome," said Agnes. "But I don't know. The letter my father got only said that he was excommunicated and that he is to be judged."

"I think it's time to do a bit of investigating," said Paris. "Will and I can't do it, because we look like Balian, and I think they will arrest us if we so much as show our faces in that village."

"I'll go," said Achilles. Then he looked down at his attire. "Although, I think they would know that I'm not from these parts." At least he was not wearing his armour from Epirus. Breeches mostly looked the same in any place, but his tunic had the White Tree of Gondor embroidered on it in silver thread.

Briseis rummaged through the bundle which Balian's traitorous steward had left behind. "There," she said, pulling out a brown woollen cloak. "Nothing else in there will fit you, Achilles, but if you wear this over your tunic, no one will notice."

"You also need to take someone who knows something about this place," said Will. All eyes turned to Barisian, who had stayed quiet up until now, sitting with his knees drawn up and his arms wrapped around them. The child seemed to be trying not to cry.

Agnes felt a stab of pity for the boy. It was obvious that he loved his father and missed him very much. What would it be like to have a father who cared? She had no answer to that, for her father had not shown her much attention, except as something to bargain with.

"Will you come with us, Bari?" asked Achilles gently. "You don't have to if you don't want to."

Barisian nodded. "I want to find my Papa," he said.

"Yes, of course you do," said the Greek, feeling awkward. It wasn't that he didn't like children; he just didn't know how to treat them when they were upset.

"I'll go as well," said Agnes. "I know how things work in these parts, and I might be able to help you. Besides, we need supplies if we are to go after Balian, and I know how to bargain."

"If anyone's goin' to do any bargainin' then you can't leave Captain Jack Sparrow behind," said Jack. He muttered to himself as he looked around in the provisions which Marc had left behind. "Wait for me," he said as he grabbed a few items of clothing. "I'll be back in a few moments."

"What is he playing at?" asked Paris. He looked at Will.

"What, are you asking me?" said Will. "I have absolutely no idea."

They heard some rustling, and when Jack re-emerged, they could not recognize him. His long hair was hidden under a peasant's cap, and without the excessive amounts of kohl, he looked almost normal. Only the braided beard showed him for who he was. He spread his arms. "Well?"

"Jack, you never cease to surprise me," said Will.

"Of course, Whelp. I'm Captain Jack Sparrow, savvy?"

* * *

Stubble covered the fields where wheat had once grown. The harvest was safely stored in barns in the village and inside the keep. Jean-Pierre, the village's blacksmith, chewed slowly on his bread as he looked out across the fields. They would not starve this winter, but even that thought brought him no comfort. All he could think of was the way Balian had looked at him as he had been dragged through the village. He could still see those brown eyes, full of hurt and the bitterness of betrayal. Why hadn't he done something? Why hadn't he spoken up for Balian, who had taken him in when he had had nowhere else to go, given him food and shelter, taught him a trade, and loved him as a brother?

Guilt gnawed at his heart. It was too late to do anything now, and he could only hope that his former master would understand how frightened he had been. 'Has fear ever stopped him from doing what he believed was right, Jean-Pierre?' thought the blacksmith. 'He took an arrow for you once, and this is how you repay him?' At that thought, the bread inside his mouth seemed to turn to ash. He forced himself to swallow. "Forgive me," he whispered, turning his face away from the fields and back to his forge. The coals in his furnace were cold, but he knew he would have to start his work soon. Life would go on; it just seemed bleaker without a reliable protector watching over them.

A group of people walking down the main path of the village caught his attention. There were four of them; two men, a woman, and a child. One of the men was tall and fair, although his skin was brown from spending so much time in the sun. The other was considerably leaner and darker in colouring. The woman was not spectacular in any way, except she looked rather too thin and pale to be good for childbearing. However, Jean-Pierre would recognize the child anywhere. Glancing around to see that no one else was watching, the blacksmith beckoned to the threesome. Barisian saw, and led the other three to the forge. "Master Barisian," said Jean-Pierre. "Thank the Lord that you're all right."

"Where's Papa?" demanded the child. "I want to see him!"

"Hush," said Jean-Pierre. He glanced up at the other three people who accompanied Barisian. "We'd better go inside. It's not safe to talk out here. Before he could do anything, however, they heard a cough.

Achilles' hand flew to his sword, ready to fight anyone who might do any harm to Balian's son. The warrior whipped around. There, stood an old man with thin lank grey hair. The cross which he wore around his neck showed that he was a holy man of Balian's religion, a priest perhaps.

"Perhaps you shouldn't be going around killin' old men," whispered Jack.

"It's the bishop," whispered Barisian to the Greek. "He's Papa's friend."

The old man held out his hands in a sign of peace, and then hobbled towards the blacksmith's cottage, indicating that they should all follow him. Agnes glanced back at Achilles. Should they trust the bishop? After all, they were trying to help a man who had been arrested for crimes against the Church.

Jack shrugged and followed the bishop. What harm could an old man do? Besides, he had never encountered a situation from which Captain Jack Sparrow could not escape.

The inside of the blacksmith's cottage was dark. A woman tended to the hearth inside, trying to coax a fire to life. When she saw Barisian, her hand flew to her mouth. "Marie, please," said the blacksmith quietly.

"Thank the lord they haven't taken you, Master Barisian," whispered Marie. "Poor Lord Balian..."

"Marie," said Jean-Pierre again, this time in a firmer tone. "Could you please leave us for a few moments?"

She nodded and left her chores. "Call me if the baby wakes," she said to her husband.

"I will," the blacksmith assured her.

Agnes had never been inside the dwelling of a commoner before, and she was struck by how plain and dark it was. There were only a few small windows, and the shutters were made out of bits of splintered wood. The table was the largest piece of furniture in the entire building, and it was so old and badly made that the wood had cracked.

"They've taken Balian to Rome," said the bishop. He shook his head. "How can they accuse him of crimes against God? God has chosen him to do His work."

Silence fell. "How...how...?" said Agnes, not quite believing what she was hearing. Had God really answered her prayers? She had wanted to give herself to Christ, and now God had sent her His servant. But how was Balian a servant of God? He was not a particularly devout man, and if the tales were to be believed, then he had even given God's city to the Infidels.

"How do you know?" said Achilles softly.

"I baptized him, my good son," said the bishop. "And when I first saw him as a mere babe, I was given a vision. I saw a warrior of God fighting demons from hell with red eyes and sharp yellowed fangs. His blood flowed freely, but he gave it no thought. Then the Heavens opened, and a divine light shone down upon him. A celestial voice called out to the warrior. That man in my vision was Balian, or what he would become. At first I did not understand, but now I do."

"But they can't kill him then, if he is a warrior of God," Agnes blurted out before she could stop herself. "Don't they know?"

"Of course they don't," said Achilles. "They don't want to believe that he is chosen, because that would mean that they work against their god since they don't believe in the same things he does."

The bishop reached out with a gnarled hand and gripped Achilles' arm. "You must not let him fall," he said. "You must take supplies from the keep. I would help you, but there is very little in the church, and while the soul may survive on God's blessings alone, the body cannot." He sighed. "I cannot believe I am encouraging you to steal anything, let alone from the King of France."

"You know, that notion does have certain appeal," said Jack, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Anything we should know before we go in and borrow said supplies without permission?"

"It's not borrowing," said Achilles. "Those things rightfully belong to Balian anyway. We're just taking back what rightfully belongs to him."

"There is a little passageway leading to the stables from the outside," said the bishop, "but it's not big enough for horses. You will have to find some other way to get out."

"If there's one thing you can be sure of, it's that I can get meself out of anythin'," said Jack with a grin.

* * *

The passage leading to the stables was definitely small. The walls were slick with slime. Achilles followed Jack, stepping as lightly as possible. His boots squelched in the mud, and once, he almost tripped. There was very little light, but the light coming in from the end of the passage lit it up enough for the two men to see. Just as well Barisian and Agnes were both with the bishop in the church. Achilles still did not trust the bishop, but since Barisian had insisted that they would be safe with the old man, he had reluctantly left them there to take care of the other supplies.

"We're comin' to the end," whispered Jack. They could hear the soft whickering of horses and smell their manure. "And they say we pirates smell."

"You do," muttered Achilles, but he quickly forgot about the bad-smelling pirates when he emerged from the passage and saw the most magnificent horse he had seen outside of Rohan. The animal eyed him warily, laying its ears flat on its head and baring its teeth. "Whoa," said the Greek soothingly, tentatively holding out a hand for the horse to sniff and ready to pull it back should the creature decide to sharpen its teeth on his fingers. The horse snorted.

"Methinks it's a warhorse," said Jack. "Err...destitute, destiny, des...des...destrier!"

"He looks like a warhorse," said Achilles. The horse had decided that he was not a threat after all, and had deigned to let the Greek scratch its withers. "I'm taking him. I'm sure someone in our party can ride such a beast."

"Yeah, that pretty elf-boy," said Jack. He was more interested in a docile little pony which was dozing. "We'll be needin' pack animals to carry our things."

"Jack, that looks like something that little Jane Turner would ride."

"That's the whole idea. You take that nasty biting beast and another one like 'im, an' I'll take this pony and his friend the donkey."

"That's a mule." Achilles looked around. "Besides, we need more than horses. We need clothing, blankets, and food."

Jack grinned at the Greek. "There's only one place to look," he said, pointing up at the castle. "Stealin' thing from right underneath the King of France's nose; if we do succeed, your name will last through the centuries, mate."

"I refuse to become known as the King of Thieves."

"Of course not. You're only good enough to be a prince of thieves."

Achilles clenched his hands into fists and tried his best to control himself so that he would not hit the pirate. There was no one who could irritate him more than Jack, perhaps with the exception of Paris. However, before he could even make another sound, they heard voices coming from outside. "Hide!" hissed Jack, slipping inside the pony's stall and crouching down. Achilles decided that the warhorse, no matter how beautiful, was not the most companionable of creatures, so he hid behind a hay bale. His hand was on the hilt of his sword, ready to take a rash course of action if that was what it came to.

Two men entered, dressed in what Jack took to be the royal livery. "I'm sure I heard voices," said the first.

"And what is so strange about that?" asked the second. "Horses do make noises."

"No, no," said the first. "They sounded like men's voices."

The second man sighed and went to the pony's stall to open the door. "Look," he said, "there's nothing—" He was cut off in midsentence by a blow to the head from the handle of a pistol. Achilles leapt out from behind his hay bale and grabbed the other one by the neck.

"You make any sound," said the Greek, "and I will gut you. Now, give me your clothes." The frightened groom quickly did as Achilles said. The Greek warrior threw a sweaty shirt to Jack. "Put that on. It'll make it easier."

The two unfortunate grooms were bound and hidden under a pile of hay. Achilles grunted as he tried to pull on one of the shirts. It simply wasn't made for someone of his stature. With a lot of tugging, courtesy of Jack, he managed to get it on. "What about the swords?" he asked. "Grooms don't wear swords."

"Just pretend we're soldiers," said Jack, tucking his pistol safely away underneath his tunic. Without looking back to see if Achilles was following him, the pirate headed for the inner keep, determined to come away with something precious taken out from underneath the nose of the King of France.

* * *

The little church was easily the sturdiest building in the village, if one did not include the keep. It was a plain stone building, with very few carvings, although the villagers had tried their best to depict stories from the bible. The bishop, Gavin, had managed to find some provisions for them in the form of a few old cloaks. "I'm sorry I can't do more," said the old churchman.

"Don't be sorry, Excellency," said Agnes, feeling a bit embarrassed about this entire business. When she had volunteered to come along, she had not thought that she would be meeting the priest who had actually baptized her prospective husband. She fingered the old baptismal font, wondering if it was the same one in which Balian had been baptized in. Not that it actually mattered now, but it was an interesting thought. She could not imagine him as a tiny helpless child. When she had met him, he had seemed anything but helpless. 'But he is helpless now,' she thought.

Barisian was sitting on the floor, staring at the door and waiting for his uncles' return. It had been quite a long time. What could be keeping them? "They're going to be all right, aren't they?" he asked.

"I'm sure they'll be fine," said Agnes to the boy. "They seem to know how to look after themselves." Barisian looked just like Balian, but their mannerisms were quite different. Whilst the father was a quiet man who tended to keep to himself, the son seemed rather talkative, and was not at all shy. Of course, having Jack Sparrow as an 'uncle' had probably influenced the child.

"Uncle Jack-Jack is the most fearsome pirate in the world," Barisian conceded. "But Papa's the strongest man in the world, and they got him. What if they get Uncle Jack-Jack and Uncle Achilles too?"

Agnes bit her lip. How could she assure Barisian that such a thing was not going to happen? "You know the game 'hide and seek'?" she asked.

The boy nodded. "I'm really good at it," he said.

"Well, these bad men knew where your father was hiding, so they could get him. They don't know that Jack and Achilles are hiding, and so—"

"They can't find them?"

"Exactly."

* * *

The 'destrier', as Jack had called the warhorse, was very enthusiastic when Achilles unlatched the door of his stall. He snorted and tossed his head, almost lunging out of the stables if the Greek had not caught his halter. "Whoa," said Achilles, trying to calm it down by stroking its bony head. "You want to stretch your legs, don't you?"

"Stop holdin' a one-sided conversation and get some more horses," said Jack, grunting as he dragged the reluctant pony out. The mule followed complacently. He didn't mind where he went, as long as he didn't have to work and as long as the pony was with him. One man was not so different from another, and he had had good experiences with them. The master had been kind to him, sometimes feeding him bits of apple or carrot.

There were shouts from outside. Beneath the hay, the two grooms grunted and writhed, trying to free themselves. "Time to go!" said Jack, pulling the pony and the mule behind him. Achilles did the only thing he could think of and vaulted onto the warhorse's back. The destrier squealed; clearly, he did not like being bested by a man, especially one whom he had never met before. The Greek didn't care. They had to fetch Agnes and Barisian and take them back to the safety of the camp, and he was sure that the camp would no longer be safe once Philippe's men caught up. With one hand, he reached down and hauled Jack across the horse's withers.

"Oi!" said the pirate.

"There's no time for dignity!" said Achilles, digging his heels into the destrier's flanks. He clung on grimly to the mane as the horse sprang forward, and the warrior could feel its powerful muscles rippling beneath him. It seemed as if the animal, and not the man, was in control. The gate of the keep closed as soon as they had sped through it. The horse refused to turn from its path. All it knew was that there were men chasing him, and his instincts were telling him to flee from his hunters.

* * *

Agnes looked up when she heard the commotion outside. The walls of the church muffled the sounds, so she could not tell what was going on. Barisian was already at the door, peeking through a crack in the wood. "What do you see?" Agnes asked in a soft voice.

"It's Uncle Achilles and Uncle Jack-Jack!" said Barisian. "I think they're in trouble, because a lot of people are chasing them."

"If that is the case, then you must go," said the bishop to the two of them. "Nièvre has become too dangerous." The old man led them to a small door at the back of the church. "Go with God's blessing," he said, making the sign of the cross over them. If Agnes' arms had not been full of cloaks, she would have blessed herself.

"Amen," said Barisian dutifully. Then he grabbed Agnes by her sleeve and almost dragged her out. It seemed that the son had not yet learnt to be a gentleman like his father.

* * *

Will was pacing in the forest. Leaves were ground into dust beneath his boots. "They should be back by now," he kept muttering. Gimli was absently shredding plant material while Barbossa stared into space.

"Will, please," said Briseis, who seemed as distraught as he was. "This is not making me feel any better."

"Well, they're back," said Legolas from his vantage point in a tree. "Agnes and Barisian are anyway, and they look like they've brought some clothing. I don't see Achilles or Jack, but I sure can hear them." The elf jumped out of the tree and landed neatly on his feet. "Prepare to run."

"What...why?" asked Anna-Maria.

"Because Jack and Achilles not only found a horse, they also found Philippe's entire army. At least, that's what it sounds like."

* * *

He felt as if he was in a waking nightmare. Part of him still could not accept that he had been arrested on charges of heresy. Balian wondered how his son was. Was Barisian frightened? Did he miss his father? He closed his eyes; he owed the boy. The man felt as if he had failed as a father, for he had failed to give Barisian what every little boy needed; peace and safety. Because of him, his child now had to flee to the ends of the world.

The inquisitors, with their black surcoats, surrounded him. Their helmets covered their faces, leaving only slits for their eyes and making them seem like emotionless statues of metal. He knew that the one at the front was called Paul, but the others were nameless. It was as if they had no souls at all, but were puppets controlled by the Pope in Rome.

His back still throbbed from the blow which he had received, and he wondered if he had broken something. Then he almost laughed bitterly. Did it even matter? He was going to his death, for he could see no escape from the grasp of Rome. The sky was grey and overcast, as if the heavens understood his feelings. 'God, if you really are there, then why have you abandoned me?' he thought. What had he done to deserve all of this?

Night was falling; soon, the land would be cast into darkness, not that there was much light in Europe. It was so different from the sun-drenched Holy Land or beautiful and mystical Middle Earth. Europe lacked warmth, and Balian was not really thinking about the weather.

"We stop for the night," said Paul, "and continue at daybreak. We must reach Avignon in five days."

Avignon. Balian remembered that there was a small papal palace there, where the exiled popes had stayed while the anti-popes had occupied Rome. Why was there not a struggle between two popes right now when he needed it the most? It had been a common enough occurrence in the past.

He was hauled from the horse. Balian struggled against the inquisitors, even though he knew it was futile. Someone drove a gauntleted fist into his stomach, making him double over and wheeze in pain. "He's nothing but trouble, this one," he heard someone say.

"That's why he's been arrested," said another man. Balian was tied to a nearby tree. The bark dug into his back through his thin shirt, and bonds were so tight that they almost cut off the blood flow to his limbs. His stomach growled as he watched the inquisitors take out their rations. God, when was it since he had last eaten? He couldn't remember. However, no matter how hungry he was, he was not going to beg his captors. They might have stripped him of everything, but he still had his dignity and his life, and he was not about to let go of those easily.

Instead, he tried to focus on anything other than his predicament. The countryside was devoid of life. All the animals which had roamed the land throughout the day had gone back to their burrows for the night, but it was, it was still too early for the animals which ruled the night to come out. The branches of the trees were simply dark tangled silhouettes against the night sky, reaching out like the grasping clawed fingers of demons. Stars began to appear, like the lanterns of angels, so far away and so faint. Was there an angel watching over his child? At the thought of Barisian, Balian felt a lump forming in his throat. He wanted to hold his son in his arms again, but he was almost certain that they had said their final farewells when Barisian had left Nièvre for the relative safety of England.

It was ironic, really, for Barisian's mother, Queen Sibylla of the Kingdom of Jerusalem, had been killed by Richard, King of England. Richard had not meant to kill Sibylla, of course; his target had been Balian. Sibylla had thwarted Richard's plans by taking the arrow for the man she loved, but for what? Had Sibylla died so that he would have a few more years in this cruel realm of mortal men? She had died in the hopes that he would be able to protect their son and raise him to be a man, and he had failed them both.

Frustration welled up in him. No, he could not just let the Roman wolves get what they wanted. 'There must be some way to escape,' he thought. There usually was, at least when he was with his friends. Where were Legolas, Jack and all the others when he needed them?

* * *

**A/N:** This one's a bit of an atmosphere-setting chapter. I hope you enjoyed it anyway. More action next week when we get back to Jack, Achilles, and Philippe's army. Till then!


	6. The Cardinal

**Chance Encounter: Legacy of the Third Age**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything that you recognize.

**Chapter 5: The Cardinal**

"All of you with long-range weapons," said Legolas, who had taken charge of the situation. He could hear the soldiers drawing closer and closer to where they were hiding. "Get into the trees and get ready to shoot! The rest of you, run. We'll cover your escape." With that, the elf leapt onto a branch above him and was soon lost in the green canopy.

Will helped Elizabeth climb onto another tree before getting up beside her. "So, we are to ambush the King of France, are we?" said Elizabeth, pulling out two pistols. Her husband grinned.

"You have to expect to do anything when you're friends with Jack," he said.

Paris, high up on his perch, put an arrow to his bowstring and aimed in the general direction of where he expected Philippe's army to emerge from. The sounds of men in pursuit were growing louder; they could all hear it now. 'Apollo, guide my arrows,' he prayed, and then wondered if Apollo had any powers in this world. Since this was Balian's world, would it not be better to pray to Balian's god, whatever his name was? Paris was never selective about whom he prayed to, as long as the prayers worked.

A horse burst through the undergrowth. Its two riders were clinging on for dear life as it wove its way around trees and surged through the forest. It seemed as if it would crash into a tree trunk any moment. Will had to stop himself from laughing. Jack never seemed to ride horses the conventional way, and he swore that his piratical friend was making more noise than the army in pursuit. As the horse passed underneath them, he heard Legolas' shout.

Gunfire blazed, and arrows flew through the air with high-pitched whistles. Some of the missiles hit their targets, the rest of them missed completely, but it was enough to make the French troops pause. They had never heard guns before, and the loud sounds terrified them.

Elizabeth fired again, shooting a soldier in the hand and making him drop his weapon. The men looked around in fear, suspecting that there were otherworldly forces at play. That was the only explanation they had for the odd loud sounds. 'Come on,' thought Elizabeth. 'You're scared, so why don't you leave?' She pressed herself up against the trunk of the tree, hoping that they would not see her.

One of Philippe's soldiers looked up, trying to find the source of the mysterious flying projectiles. His eyes met those of Elizabeth's and then he gave a shout, pointing at their no-longer-hidden assailants.

"Oh, bugger all," muttered Elizabeth as the soldiers rushed up to the trees. It was fortunate that they were not armed with long-ranged weapons. Even so, it was only a matter of time before they either climbed up the trees or cut them down.

Legolas was firing in quick succession now, as was Paris. Will was already on the ground, sword in hand. Upon seeing him, the soldiers stopped for a moment. Their confusion was evident. Had they not already arrested the baron of Nièvre and taken him to Rome? Why was he here, fighting them? The pirate didn't care who they thought he was; he launched a one-man offensive to try and get the upper hand before they got over their surprise.

All Elizabeth could see was a blur of red and silver as Will weaved his deadly dance. 'He was never so graceful when we danced at dinner parties,' she thought, and then she pushed that thought away. Now was not the time to remember such things, and neither of them had been fond of the dinner parties anyway.

She climbed down to join him. The others had decided not to listen to Legolas' advice and had run back to help. Achilles was in his element. He was covered in the blood of his enemies, and he moved with such speed that only Legolas could match him.

Gimli was holding his own against all the men, but that was only to be expected. Those who had thought that the dwarf would be an easy target because of his stature soon discovered the huge mistake which they had made. It was impossible to get past the whirling blades of Gimli's axes, and fury made him even stronger than he already was. Both elf and dwarf were side by side, and they made a formidable pair. Anyone who managed to escape Legolas' arrows was confronted by Gimli's axes, and most did not escape the elf's projectiles.

Barbossa seemed to be enjoying himself somewhat. The French soldiers were not quite sure of what to make of this old man and his strange little screeching pet. His oddness gave him a slight advantage at first, and then the men realized that he was, in fact, just a man, and not a demon as they had thought at first, and they surrounded him, determined to at least take one prisoner back to the King. The old pirate was forced to retreat, for as good as he was, he was not good enough to take on so many men at once, and on land too. Land was not Barbossa's favourite place.

Jack saw the situation from the corner of his eye. "I cannot believe that I'm doing this," he muttered as he hastened to his comrade's aid, not that he considered Barbossa a comrade, but they were in this together and they probably would need every person if they were going to save Balian from the clutches of the Church.

Philippe's soldiers did not know what they ought to do. Their king would not be pleased to know that they had let someone steal that warhorse, especially since it had been the traitor's steed, but neither did they want to die at the hands of these people, some of whom seemed to be angels of death.

Achilles knew what sort of effect he was having on his enemies, and secretly, he was elated that he could still inspire fear, even in people who did not know of his reputation for being the best killer in all of Greece. He took a step forwards. His blade was lowered, but he knew that even if they decided to attack him, he would still be able to manoeuvre his blade quickly enough to defend himself. Blood ran down the length of his sword in red trickles and dripped from the tip. He narrowed his eyes at the soldiers and then curled back his lip a little, just like a lion that was preparing to attack.

The soldiers lost their courage at the sight of that angel of death advancing. God was not with them, or else they would not have lost so many of their own. They fled back to the keep. The King would be wrathful, yes, but they knew that at least their lives would be spared.

* * *

Barisian clenched his teeth and tried not to shake, but he was terrified. What if they caught his uncles the way they had caught his father? He didn't know what he would do then. What if the bad men came for him? His father had told him to go to England, where he would be safe, but where was England, and could he really just go there without the most important person in his life?

"They'll be fine," Agnes said, placing a hand on his shoulder. He looked up at her. Here was another mystery. Who was she, and what was she doing here? Barisian liked Agnes well enough, but she just simply refused to tell him why she was here. All right, she had said that she was here because of his father, but how did he even know her?

"How do you know?" asked Barisian.

"They're good fighters," said Agnes. "Jack is the most fearsome pirate in the...in the world, isn't he?" Jack was not what she would call fearsome, but he was certainly very odd.

"But they have lots and lots of people to fight," said Barisian. His lower lip was shaking. To stop himself from crying, he went to the warhorse which Jack and Achilles had brought back. The horse was his father's, and although Balian had told Barisian that the animal was dangerous, Barisian had often sneaked into the stables to visit him when Balian had been too busy to watch his son. The horse whickered softly as the boy approached. He could sense Barisian's distress. Horses were peculiar like that. He lowered his head so that Barisian could scratch it.

"I miss Papa," Barisian whispered to the horse. "You miss him too, don't you?"

The horse snorted and blinked, something which Barisian took to mean 'yes'. He rested his head against the animal's muscular neck and closed his eyes, trying very hard to imagine that his father was with him, right now. Balian had often smelled of horses and sweat.

"It wasn't me fault!" he heard Jack say. "Honest! It was jest bad luck, savvy?"

"No one expected the troops to find us," said Achilles.

Barisian opened his eyes. His uncles and aunts were back. "Aunt Lizzie!" he cried. "Uncle Jack-Jack! Uncle Paris! You're back!"

"You were worried about us, weren't you?" said Elizabeth, hugging the boy to her.

"Really, Jack, how is it not your fault?" said Legolas. "I send you out on a simple mission to get supplies, and you come back with a hostile army."

"It was only part of a hostile army," said Achilles defensively, "and it really was bad luck. They found us when we were taking the horses out. It wasn't our fault."

"And they got Walnut back," added Barisian.

"Walnut?" said Paris quizzically. What was the child talking about?

"That's the horse's name," said Briseis.

Legolas looked at the horse. The stallion's flanks were wet with sweat, but he could see that the animal was sleek and streamlined, and very proud. "What sort of name is that?" he said.

"Papa named him," said Barisian, folding his arms. "He said his coat was the colour of walnut wood."

"Trust Balian to name a warhorse Walnut," said Will with a small smile.

When Agnes heard the name which Balian had given his destrier, she felt a pang of longing for the man who had named the horse. From what she had seen and heard of him, he seemed to be such a gentle soul, and he definitely did not deserve his arrest. 'It must be Philippe,' she decided. 'The Pope would not be so blind. Philippe must have lied to the Pope to get him to excommunicate Balian.' She could not believe that the Church was capable of destroying a man's life just because he had sinned out of a desire to save the lives of many. The Church was merciful.

"So now what?" said Jack.

"We go to Rome, as planned," said Legolas.

"We didn't plan any of this," muttered Anna-Maria. "We were thrown headlong into it."

* * *

As night descended upon them, the Inquisitors huddled around their campfire, certain that their prisoner would not be able to escape. However, they had not expected their prisoner to be so determined to live. While they sat around their fire, Balian tried his best to loosen his bonds. The Inquisitors had bound him with the best knots that they knew, but his friendship with Jack had resulted in the accumulation of odd and useful skills, such as the art of slipping knots. He bit his lip to keep himself from cursing out loud as he struggled to free himself. The ropes chafed his skin and rubbed his wrists raw, but he ignored all discomfort. His only thoughts were of his son; he couldn't let Barisian become an orphan.

After what seemed like eternity, Balian's efforts paid off, and he felt the ropes loosening. Keeping an eye on the Inquisitors, he slipped out of the ropes. His wrists stung where the rough surfaces of his bonds had rubbed the skin away, but he was free, and he had not known that such elation existed in the world of mortal men. His heart was beating wildly against his ribcage, and he could 

hear the rushing of his own blood. If he was caught, then he really would pay dearly for this escapade, but, God willing, he would not be caught.

A crescent moon hung in the sky, as if God was indeed watching over him. The forest was so dark that he could not see his own hands before his face. He plunged blindly through the undergrowth, trying his best not to make any noise, but that was impossible when one could not see where he was going. Twigs cracked beneath his feet, and thorns and branches tore at him, but he kept going. There were shouts behind him; his captors had discovered that he was missing, and they were now in pursuit.

He cursed, increasing his pace, but his injuries and hunger weakened him. He stumbled on a depression in the ground, and fell. The man tried to scramble to his feet, but he was pinned down by the body weight of another man. Firelight from the Inquisitor's torch illuminated the surrounding trees. "Captain!" shouted the Inquisitor as he struggled with Balian. The wayward prisoner rammed his forehead into the bridge of the Inquisitor's nose, not caring that there was a chance that he could hit the helmet. There was a sickening crack, and the Inquisitor fell backwards, clutching his broken nose. Balian was on his feet in an instant, but he could see that he was surrounded. Still, he ran. If there was a chance for escape, then he was going to take it.

Something large and heavy knocked him to the ground, driving the breath from his lungs. His back struck the gnarled roots of an old tree when he landed, and he uttered a short cry as pain shot up his back from where he had been hit with the quarter staff. Gauntleted hands grabbed him by the hair and hauled him to his feet.

"No one can escape the wrath of God," hissed Paul's voice. Balian spat in the Inquisitor's face. Paul jerked back in disgust, and then drove his knee into the man's unprotected abdomen, making him double over and gasp in pain. Never in his life had the Inquisitor felt so much hatred towards one man. This heretic was so unrepentant. Anger clouded his thoughts. "Bind him," he said to the other Inquisitors. "I think he needs to be taught a lesson."

The other Inquisitors seemed to exchange glances, but none of them dared to disobey their leader, especially not when he was in such a mood. Paul had a reputation for being ruthless when he felt the need for it, and it was better for all of them that the prisoner bore the brunt of his anger, and not one of them.

They dragged him back to their meagre camp, and not once did Balian stop trying to fight them. He did not know what Paul meant by a 'lesson', but judging by the other lessons which he had received at the hands of his enemies, he could guess that this was not to be a lesson of the informative kind.

* * *

Balian gasped for breath. His skin gleamed with sweat in the dull firelight. Strong gauntleted hands held him down. The tattered remnants of his shirt hung from his body, and the torn fabric was stained with blood. He gritted his teeth and jerked as the lash cut another line of red on his already scarred skin. The man could not help but reflect upon all the other times he had been in a similar situation; why did he always end up like this?

Each lash left a stripe of fire, but he refused to cry out. If he was to lose his life soon, then at least he would keep his dignity so that when he met his father in purgatory, he would have no cause for shame. 'I did as you asked,' he thought as an image of his father flashed before him. 'I have protected the king, the kingdom, the people, and it is going to lead me to death.' Did he regret it? Balian couldn't say that he did, for he had remained true to his conscience. The only thing which he did regret was leaving his son alone to fend for himself in this increasingly dark world.

With each lash, Paul grew more and more frustrated. The prisoner's refusal to acknowledge the error of his ways irked him more than anything, and the Inquisitor simply wanted him to beg for mercy. Perhaps then, he would be able to look more kindly upon the man who had surrendered God's holy city to the dark-skinned infidels. Already, the prisoner's back was covered with red lines, crossing over each other and creating a lattice of blood. He lifted his hand again to deliver another blow, but his men stopped him.

"Sir, it would not be wise to kill him now," said his second-in-command, a Norman by the name of Fulk. "The Papal Legate had specifically said that the prisoner is to be delivered alive to Avignon, where the Legate himself will interrogate him."

Almost growling with frustration, Paul threw down the whip and stalked the way, leaving his men to bind the prisoner again. The man sagged against his bonds, and Fulk could not help but feel some pity for him. If the rumours were right, then this man had a child out there somewhere, probably terrified and confused. Sighing, he took his water skin, uncorked it, and put it to the man's lips. "Here," he said.

Balian gulped down the stale water, letting the liquid slide down his parched throat. When the water skin was taken away, he looked up at the man who had given him the drink. "Why are you doing this?" he asked.

"I'm doing this because you and I are both men, and I need to keep you alive until we reach Avignon," said Fulk, putting the cork back into his water skin.

The two men regarded each other. It was the first time that Balian had seen one of the Inquisitors without a helmet, and the face which he saw was surprisingly human. He had expected something akin to the statues of angels in those cold churches filled with echoes, but this man here probably genuinely believed that he was working for God. "Thank you," he finally said.

Fulk nodded and turned away. It would not do to feel too much sympathy for a heretic. If Balian of Ibelin or Nièvre did not repent, then he was destined for Hell, and that would be much worse than what men such as Paul could do to him.

* * *

Not for the first time since the beginning of this venture, Heloise wondered how she and Agnes had ended up like this; travelling with a group of motley strangers on foot all over the countryside of France, looking for a heretic. Not that it was a bad thing, for the maid had not been so well entertained before in her life.

Agnes, on the other hand, was getting more and more miserable. It wasn't that she didn't want to save Balian —she wanted that more than anything— but she had never lived like this before; going everywhere on foot, sleeping under the stars, and gutting rabbits for meagre meals with hardly any flavouring except for what they could find in the wild.

"That's the life of real women for ya," Anna-Maria had said when Agnes had first been handed the corpses of two still warm rabbits. She had held dangled them at an arm's length, not wanting to get their blood on her clothes. "Ye gotta do everythin' yerself; there ain't anyone to do it for ya."

Elizabeth had been slightly more sympathetic. "My first time was horrible too," she had said, "but you get used to it after a while." The older woman had guided her knife and taught her about what she should keep and what she should not.

Madame Turner had been right. After a week or so of such a life, Agnes no longer really cared about how she looked or smelled; the one thing she did care about was where their next meal was going to come from, and how they were going to outwit the Church and rescue Balian. That was another thing which was troubling her; for her whole life, she had been preparing for a life in the cloister as a celibate and pure bride of Christ. Now, she was with these vagabonds, fighting against the Church. It just did not sit well with her, because for her, the Church was the body of Christ on Earth, and to go against the Church of Rome was to go against God.

As she trudged along the path, she looked to the front of the column where the elf was leading them. Sitting on Walnut was Barisian, with Jack's compass in his hand. She could tell that Legolas was impatient. Who on this journey wasn't? However, the elf seemed more impatient than most, and he seemed reluctant to even let them rest during the night.

Of course, Agnes' assumptions were correct. Legolas really wanted them to continue moving during the night, since the Inquisitors were on horseback and making much more progress than they were. At this rate, they were not going to catch up with Balian and his captors until they reached Rome itself.

"Legolas," said Achilles. Even the Greek warrior was looking exhausted. "Perhaps it would be wise for us to find a settlement to rest in for one night. We need proper food and proper sleep if we are to continue."

"Aye," said Barbossa, wiping his brow with an increasingly dirty handkerchief.

"Face it, lad," said Gimli, leaning on his axe. "We're not all elves like you. Us mere mortals need our rest."

Legolas turned to face them. The expression on his face was unreadable, but his bright eyes were as hard as the sapphires which they resembled. "And what about Balian? If we do not hurry, his head will be on a pole somewhere!"

"No!" cried Barisian. He could see it all happening in his mind. Jack had told him about how the ravens had clawed out the eyes of dead bodies, and the thought that it could happen to his father terrified him.

"You're scaring the child," Elizabeth scolded. She went over to the boy, and he willingly accepted her embrace, sobbing into her shoulder.

"I don't...I don't...want...Papa to...to die!" he said in between hiccups.

"Shh," said Elizabeth. "Of course you don't, and he's not going to. We are going to get him back, you hear me?" She glared at Legolas, who had the sense to look ashamed.

"I'm sorry, Bari," he said in a much gentler tone. "I was just being silly." He glanced up at the sky. "All right, if we come across a town, then we will resupply and rest there. However, I am not going to look for one intentionally.

* * *

The walls of Avignon loomed on the horizon. Even though they still had a few hours of travel left before they rode through its gates, Balian could see the spires of the cathedral sticking up like the spears of defiant soldiers into the pale grey sky. It was easily the largest city he had seen in the West, although compared to the glories of Jerusalem and Minas Tirith, it looked like something which his son would build out of mud.

He tried to hold himself proudly, but it was difficult. His body was broken and bleeding. He was hungry, and he had very little hope left. Once he entered those gates, he would be in the hands of Rome, and it would only be a matter of time before they sent him to wherever it was that men went after they departed from this life.

A water-filled moat surrounded the city, making it difficult for attacking armies to surround it and besiege it. However, during times of peace, its gates remained wide open, and the drawbridge was constantly lowered, allowing travellers to enter and leave the city freely. He almost laughed at that thought. Anyone would be able to go in and out of the city freely, except him. He was the Church's prisoner. The towering stone battlements were the walls of his prison.

It was often said that the climate was mild and warm in the south of France, but to Balian, it was no less harsh than the bitter biting cold of Nièvre, all the way up in the north. It was also said that God was in this place, for many miracles had happened here, surrounding a shepherd called Bénézet who had supposedly received visions from Heaven and then built the great bridge over the River Rhone singlehandedly. However, Balian could not feel any divine presence in this place. Perhaps those hypocrites from Rome had corrupted any sanctity which Avignon had once had.

Fulk watched the prisoner through the slits in his helmet. What was the man thinking? He found it very difficult to understand Balian of Ibelin, or of Nièvre—it did not really matter. The prisoner was a man of few words, but there was some strength in him, and when Fulk was with him, he felt as if he was being included in some divine plan, but he kept on telling himself that it was the Devil playing tricks, for how could this heretic have God's favour? The Holy Father was God's representative on Earth, and he was the one who passed on God's intentions. To go against the Holy Father was to go against the Church, and thus God; that was exactly what Balian had done.

Another Inquisitor was waiting for them by the gates of Avignon. "His Eminence, Cardinal Ambrosius de Magio, awaits," he told Paul.

"I will take the prisoner to the Legate at once," said the other Inquisitor. The hooves of their horses clattered hollowly on the wooden drawbridge, making it shake from the impact. The gate itself was in the shape of a pointed ar

The Papal palace was a modest building compared to all the other palaces which Balian had seen. It was built entirely from local stone, and had very few windows. The dark wooden door was narrow, and its surface had been worn smooth by many years of use. Other Inquisitors stood guard at the door, barring the way of anyone who wished to see the inhabitant of the palace.

Balian was dragged from the saddle. His knees almost buckled when his feet hit the ground. Gritting his teeth, he steadied himself, not that he would have fallen flat on his face. Paul's grip around his arm was tighter than any manacle.

Half staggering and half dragged, the prisoner was taken into the dark cool interior of the papal palace. Their footsteps echoed in the empty winding corridors. The few small windows let in very little light, and it was as if night permanently ruled this place. 'So much for a city blessed by God,' thought Balian.

He was taken to a small room with a fire burning merrily in the hearth, in contrast to the darkness. A tall man stood at the sole window, staring out. There were very few pieces of furniture, but everything that Balian could see had been meticulously carved out of the finest wood in the region.

A crystal decanter of wine sat on a table covered with a silken tablecloth. If he hadn't been in such a dire situation, he would have laughed. His Eminence the cardinal might not have known it, but the tablecloth —which had probably been looted from the East and brought back to the West— had inscriptions from the Qur'an woven around the edges, stating that Allah was the One True God, and that Mohammed was His messenger. Seeing the Arabic inscription strangely comforted him. Perhaps this was a sign from God; then again, despairing men tended to have farfetched imaginations.

"Leave us," said the cardinal. Paul looked at glanced at Balian. After so many days of travel and lack of sustenance, he deemed that the man's spirit had been subdued somewhat. It was probably safe to leave him alone with Ambrosius. The Inquisitor bowed and left the room, closing the heavy metal-studded door behind him.

Balian, still bound and bloodied, was left alone with the cardinal. The churchman turned around to face him, and the younger man was surprised to see that he was smiling serenely. "My lord of Ibelin," he said. "I have heard much about you, perhaps more than you would like the world to know."

"I have nothing to be ashamed of," said Balian, setting his jaw defiantly and meeting the cardinal's gaze. "I did what I judged to be right when I surrendered Jerusalem to save its people."

"Jerusalem?" The cardinal chuckled. "No, I do not speak of Jerusalem." He approached Balian with slow and steady steps, for he was assured of his victory. He clapped Balian on the back, making the other man jerk with pain as his hand came into contact with the open wounds from Paul's whip. "Ah, I see my men have been a bit rash," said the cardinal. "No, Balian; Jerusalem is not my concern, for we will take it back from the Saracens one day."

"Then what do you want with me?" asked Balian. None of this was making sense at all.

The cardinal smiled and leaned in closer so that he could whisper into the younger man's ear.

"I want to talk to you about Middle Earth," he said.

* * *

**A/N:** Hope you enjoyed that; I'm not sure if there was enough action but that was how my muses seemed to want the story to go, and who am I to argue against them?


	7. Grace of God

**Chance Encounter: Legacy of the Third Age**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything you recognize.

**Chapter 6: Grace of God**

Middle Earth. These two words seemed to freeze his blood in his veins. Balian stared at the cardinal, not even able to do anything to hide his shock, for it was so great. Silence reigned for what seemed like a long tense moment, and then Balian shook his head. "What?" he said.

Ambrosius laughed. Did the fool think that he could trick him after that first initial reaction? "Now, now, my lord of Ibelin," he said. "I don't think there is any need to hide the fact that you do know what I'm talking about, and it is nothing to be ashamed of either. Indulge an old man, for I am curious."

His voice was so soothing and he seemed so kind that Balian was almost convinced, but he remembered his treatment at the hands of the Inquisitors, and how he was separated from his son because of this man and his ilk. Ambrosius was not simply an old man with an odd interest. This was a man with ambition, and somehow that ambition involved Middle Earth. With that in mind, Balian kept his mouth shut and stared straight ahead. He wasn't sure what Ambrosius de Magio wanted, but he was not going to give it to him.

"Perhaps you should have become a hermit instead of a heretic," said Ambrosius. "I usually cannot stand silence, but in you, I find it admirable, foolish although it is. You know you face death, and it will not be by my hand but by the justice of the Church. However, you may yet save your soul—"

"To say anything would be to sell my soul," said Balian.

Ambrosius circled him slowly, with firm and steady steps. The cardinal's hands were clasped loosely behind his back, and he was playing with a set of rosary beads. Both men remained silent; one waiting, and the other determined to make his opponent wait. The shadows moved and became longer. Still, they persisted in their game.

The room grew darker, but the candles remained unlit, for Ambrosius had given specific instructions to his servants that they were not to come in without his express permission. Soon, the two men seemed to be nothing but shadows in the darkening world.

"My patience wears thin, my good son," said Ambrosius. His voice still held that amiable tone, but it was laced with a hard edge, the way the throng of a whip was soft, but could still cut into flesh like any blade.

Balian laughed dryly. "You have held out for longer than many others in the past," he said. He did not see the blow coming, nor could he have dodged it. Ambrosius backhanded him. The signet ring on the churchman's hand tore through his cheek. He stumbled, almost losing his balance, but he righted himself before he could fall. Although Ambrosius was past his prime, he was still more than capable of beating men into submission, especially if the man in question was bound and already weakened from lack of sustenance and another flogging.

The cardinal grabbed the younger man by the hair and yanked his head back. Balian glared up at him. In the dark, Ambrosius could only see the whites of the man's eyes, but he could tell that he had lost none of his defiance. "The Irminsul," he hissed. "What do you know of it?"

"What?" said Balian, genuinely confused this time. What was that?

"Tell me about the Silmarils, damn you!"

Silmarils. Balian had heard a little about them, but he had not understood much, only that they were dangerous and important. How did Ambrosius de Magio find out about them? "What makes you think that I will answer your demands?" he asked.

The younger man felt the cold blade of a dagger against his throat. It bit into his skin, and a trickle of warm blood ran down his neck. "Because I can kill you here and now, and your damned soul will go straight down to the eternal fires of Hell," said Ambrosius.

"You wouldn't do it," said Balian, taunting the churchman. "You need me to talk, and I can't do that if you slit my throat."

"Yes, you are right about that much," said Ambrosius, suddenly regaining his composure. "But I can still send you to Hell."

* * *

Marc might have lost the chance to personally hand the heretic's spawn to the Inquisitors, but that did not mean he was going to forget about his humiliation at the hands of the heretic's friends, if heretics were civilized enough to have those. After that man with long golden hair had told him to leave, Marc had gone back to Nièvre to find Philippe, telling the King of France about everything that had transpired. Now, they were riding after that little runt and his ragtag group of protectors with a contingent of armoured knights.

Philippe was not so interested in handing over Balian's son over to the Church. That boy was a threat; if Barisian ever found out about what part Philippe had played in Balian's downfall, then no doubt the boy would want to avenge his father. The King could not let that happen, for the child had the blood of two royal houses flowing in his veins, and hardly anyone in Christendom had more noble ancestry. If he decided that he was the rightful king of the Holy Land and of France, then he would pose a serious problem to Philippe. It was better to cut down that threat while it was still young and unripe.

The King had sent missives to all his vassals and the other lords, telling them of the situation and describing the fugitives' appearances. Barisian looked like any other little boy, as far as he was concerned, but according to his kinsman's former steward, the boy's companions would be very easy to recognize.

* * *

As he looked around at the buildings of the little town, Gimli shook his head. These people had obviously never heard of proper stonework. Their cobbled streets were crooked, with a channel which ran down the middle acting as a sewer. The dwarf cursed and dodged as someone threw the contents of a chamber pot out of an upper storey window.

"This is worse than Tortuga," muttered Legolas. The stench was overwhelming and everywhere he looked, he could see destitution and poverty. Children in rags begged for money at the sides of the streets, holding out their skeletal hands to passersby. At least in Tortuga, most of its inhabitants had seemed happy, if a bit unruly.

Soldiers patrolled the streets, but they seemed oblivious to the plights of those who were less well off. Instead, they made sure that vendors did not set up their stalls outside of the assigned places, and thus blocking the already narrow streets.

"It's unbelievable," said Paris, who was used to the wide and ordered streets of Troy. "I thought Balian's world would be more akin to places like Minas Tirith."

"It would possibly look like the underbelly of Minas Tirith," said Jack.

"Except worse," said Achilles, who had actually been to the underbelly of the White City.

Gimli was glad that the borrowed cloak hid him very well, as he highly doubted that the inhabitants of this place would not realize that he did not belong here. He glanced up at Legolas, who was also cloaked. The hood hid his hair and his ears, but all the same, he had attracted the glances of several people already. The dwarf felt uncomfortable, as if he was being watched. His large axe was stowed with the other luggage which was being carried by the horse, and he only had his throwing axes with him. If a fight should break out, he wouldn't have his favourite weapon ready. 'They probably think we're pilgrims,' he told himself. 'Stop your fretting, son of Gloin. You're worse than the pointy-ear.' Little did he know that his premonitions and worries would prove to be very valid.

* * *

The odd company found a quiet little tavern in one of the less conspicuous parts of the town. It suited their needs perfectly, as there were plenty of free rooms. The tavern's owner was more than happy to accommodate them, for a price, of course.

Hot bowls of stew were brought out for the tired travellers, as well as mugs of a frothy brew. As soon as Gimli took a sip of the ale, he knew why the tavern was so quiet. The ale was watery and tasteless. It was almost like drinking a soup of parchment, except perhaps parchment broth would be slightly more pleasant on the tongue. He looked up to see how the others were reacting. Jack was wolfing down the stew as if there was nothing wrong, so the dwarf decided to try the food instead. He discreetly pushed the drink to one side, hoping that the tavern keeper would not notice and be offended.

The stew was hot, and there were sizeable bits of meat in it, but it was so badly cooked that the meat tasted like parchment, and most of it was gristle and tendon anyway. Still, Gimli realized that he needed to eat something, and since no one was complaining, not even Barisian or the ladies, he made himself swallow as much of it as he possibly could. Perhaps the taste buds of men were not as sensitive and refined as those of the dwarves.

Night had fallen, as if the deities of this world had covered it with a thick blanket which threatened to smother life. The air was tainted with the smell of unburied waste and smoke. The company had retired to their rooms to rest; after so many days of travelling in the wilderness, even the most refined of them slept soundly on the hard, pest-infested pallets. That was, except Legolas. The elf could not rest. He stared out of the tiny window, wondering about how their missing friend was faring. He knew that Balian's life depended on them, and he wasn't sure if they could actually reach him on time. After all, they had only one horse, and the Inquisitors were all mounted. And what about Barisian? He was Balian's son, and perhaps the authorities would come after the child as well. By just being here, they were all in danger, and he was the one in charge. It was a heavy burden to bear.

As he stared out of the window, he became aware that it was much too quiet, even for night time. He could not hear the tavern keeper's movements, although he knew that it was much too early for them to have finished their work. He shook Gimli awake. The dwarf grunted. "'Tis still dark, laddie," he mumbled.

"We have to go, now," said Legolas. "Something's not right. I know it in my heart."

The dwarf sat up. "You're always sayin' that, but you can never say what is wrong."

"But whenever I say it, things do go wrong, don't they?" said Legolas, going over to shake Paris awake.

"Aye, that they do," said Gimli, wishing that his elven friend was not so accurate all the time. "I swear, lad, that you're the one bringing bad luck down on us."

The travellers quickly gathered up their things and Achilles went down to the stables to fetch Walnut. As he led the horse out, he noticed the glint of firelight. Men were coming towards the tavern, armed and ready to kill.

"Ares curse them!" he said, dragging the sleepy destrier back to the others. "They're coming for us!"

"I know," said Legolas, nocking an arrow to his bow. Gimli grabbed his large axe, while the others drew their swords.

"So, Whelp, we're goin' ta give 'em a good ole fight, aren't we?" said Jack with a grin.

"I don't know why you're so happy about it," said Will. "We're surrounded."

"No one's managed to catch the infamous Captain Jack Sparrow before. You should have some faith."

"There's always a first time," said Will.

"And a lot of exceptions," said Elizabeth. She lifted Barisian onto the warhorse's back and turned to Agnes. "Get on," she told her. "You too, Heloise. When you see a gap in their ranks, run for it."

"But I want to—" said Barisian.

"She's the king, an' the king's orders must be obeyed," said Barbossa, cutting the child off in mid-sentence. "Now, you remember the code?"

"Be without fear...?"

"No, not that one! We ain't no knights!"

"Uh huh," said Barisian. "Anyone who falls behind is left behind."

"Ye had best keep that in mind, boy."

The soldiers converged on them. Legolas released his arrow; the projectile whistled as it soared through the air and struck a man in the eye, going through the thin bone at the back of the eye socket and piercing his brain. The man fell without a word. "That's one, lad," said Gimli. "But I'm still going to win!"

Will dodged a blow which would have gutted him and managed to slash his attacker's arm. His thin blade bounced off the chainmail, leaving only a thin silver line. "Damn it," he muttered. This was going to be more difficult than he had thought. He liked his swords, but they just didn't work very well against armoured men. Nearby, Gimli's axe was proving to be very effective, and the soldiers seemed afraid to venture too close to the dwarf. Will seized up one of the dropped long swords, and not a moment too soon, for he only managed to parry an attack from a flail-wielding knight on horseback.

The screams of horses and the cries of men pierced through the silence of the night. In the crescent moon's pale silver light, everything was black and white. There were dark splashes all over the cobblestones. Horses slipped and tripped in the confusion, crushing men beneath their bodies.

Walnut squealed nervously, prancing about. His iron-shod hooves clattered on the stone. The horse snorted. He wanted nothing more than to get out of here and away from danger, and his riders were not strong enough to control him. Barisian attempted to stroke the horse's neck to calm him down a bit, but it did no good. The smell of blood was triggering the stallion's natural instincts. With a snort, the destrier charged at the weakest spot in the soldiers' ranks, causing the men to scatter in order to avoid being trampled beneath those furious hooves. Agnes could only cling on as the animal surged forward.

'God save me,' she thought as the horse rounded a sharp corner.

"Get the boy!" shouted the knight in charge. "The others are of no importance! Get the—" There was a loud bang, followed by silence. Jack was holding a smoking pistol. The knight slid from his saddle and fell to the ground, blood trickling from a small round wound in his forehead. The other soldiers stared at the pirate with fear. What was this man?

The travellers did not wait for the soldiers to overcome their shock. With Legolas in the lead, they ran, chasing after the errant destrier. They could hear the soldiers behind them, shouting angrily.

"Jack, perhaps you shouldn't have introduced modern artillery to this place," said Will as they ran through the cobbled streets.

"They probably think I'm a wizard," retorted the pirate. "And I ain't dropped me pistol, so they'll never find out how it was done, savvy?"

* * *

His head was reeling. He hardly remembered where he was, or why he was here. All he knew was agony, and a voice asking him about Silmarils. Balian could feel his own hot blood running down his body from his wounds. He could hardly tell where he was injured; it seemed as if his whole body was hurting. One injury merged with another. There was no strength left in his limbs. He sagged against his bonds, gasping for breath and wishing that darkness would claim him.

Ambrosius was growing more impatient with each passing moment. His interrogators were the best in all of Christendom, and yet the man would not talk. The cardinal fiddled with his rosary beads, trying to think of other methods to make Balian of Ibelin talk, without killing the man or harming his ability to comprehend and answer questions. However, the Pope had been very specific about bringing the man to Rome to be judged. Ambrosius sighed. Puppet although he might be, Clement still had some power by just being the Church's figurehead.

"Tend to him," he said to his men. "Tomorrow, we set off for Rome. It would not do to let the Holy Father to see him like this."

* * *

Agnes fell to her knees, desperately sucking in cold night air into her lungs. "Are they gone yet?" she asked in between gasps.

"Aye, lassie," said Barbossa. "They're gone." He tucked his pistol back into his belt. Darkness surrounded them, for the thin sliver of crescent moon only gave off a very dim light. Shadows seemed to be reaching out from all sides, trying to grasp them. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled.

Heloise shivered, wrapping her arms around herself. Seeing that she was cold and frightened, Briseis put an arm around the girl's shoulders in an attempt to offer her some comfort. The Trojan woman was reluctant to admit it, but she was also afraid. Who wouldn't be, if one was in a strange world with hostile men chasing after them? 'Why is it always like this?' she wondered. Ever since those strange men had appeared in Troy, they had never had a moment of peace, save for the brief reprieve in Gondor.

"I guess we shall have to sleep under the stars again," wheezed Paris.

"I'm tempted to make you run a bit more first," said Achilles. Paris glared at the Greek, who only shrugged. "You wouldn't survive in the army if you can't even run that distance without dying."

"That is why I am not in the army. Unlike you, there is actually something in my head."

Achilles nodded, as if in understanding. "Yes, of course. Your head is filled with sand," he said.

"That's enough," said Legolas, before this pointless argument could get too far ahead. "Paris is right. We do need some rest. However, I wish to get to Rome as soon as possible, so we will be leaving at dawn." With that, he strode off to scout the area, leaving his companions who were exchanging glances. The elf was a lot more nervous than he was letting on, but he was never very good at hiding his emotions from those who knew him well.

Heloise spread out some of the coarser blankets on the cold ground. "They treat us as if we're soldiers," she said to Agnes.

"That's because they are all soldiers in one way or another, even Prince Paris," said Agnes. What she was not aware of was that Paris was very close by, and he had heard everything. The fact that Agnes had called him a soldier gave him a feeling of satisfaction. Perhaps he was following Hector's footsteps after all. Still smiling, he saw that Barisian's head was nodding. The boy was already half asleep. This not-so-pleasant adventure had tired him. The Trojan lifted him off the horse's back before the child fell and gently set him on one of the blankets before wrapping another one around him. Seeing Balian's son made him think of his own pregnant wife, still back in Minas Tirith.

'At least she's safe,' he told himself. By the gods, he missed her.

* * *

For days, a great wind had been blowing, sending icy sleet flying into their faces, almost blinding them. Balian shivered, for that old cloak which he had been given was not doing much to keep him warm. Storm clouds hid the sun, casting the world into shadow. The storm made it difficult for them to see very far, and they could not travel fast just in case a horse tripped and injured itself.

The animals' hooves squelched in the mud, leaving a trail of puddles behind them. Balian's horse shook its head and snorted. The straps of the saddle were chafing its skin. It looked as miserable as its rider, with water streaming from its mane. If there had not been an Inquisitor jerking on the rope attached to the horse's halter, it might have just turned around and gone back to the green meadows of France. 'You and me both,' thought Balian. Neither of them wanted to go through the mountains which separated France from the Holy Roman Empire. Each step took him closer to death, and while he did not fear it, he was not exactly keen on the idea either.

Ambrosius rode at the front of the company with Paul. The cardinal no longer looked haughty and regal. The sleet had washed away the facade of the Roman eagle, leaving a soaked and bedraggled crow. The path was very narrow. On their right was a sheer cliff face. Sometimes, bits of mud, dislodged by the storm, tumbled down. On their left was a sharp drop leading down to a furious river with foaming brown water, cutting through the mountains as if it was a watery serpent from the ancient times.

Suddenly, one of the Inquisitors at the front gave a panicked shout and pointed upwards. Balian glanced up. Some of the soil which held the rocks in place had been washed away by the storm. The rocks were falling down on them as if God Himself had decided to attack them. The horses tried to bolt, adding to the confusion. Balian's horse reared, and then lost its balance and fell onto its side. The man just managed to jump off in time to avoid being crushed by the animal. The rough landing drove the breath from his lungs, but he didn't care. This had to be a sign that God was on his side. In this confusion, no one would notice him if he escaped. He fumbled at the swollen ropes, trying to untie himself from the pommel of the saddle. The horse was still thrashing around. However, it would not get up again, for one of its legs was bent at an odd angle.

His fingers were numb with cold. Balian cursed as he struggled to free himself. After what seemed like a painfully long time, the ropes fell from his bloodied wrists. Freedom had never tasted so sweet. The man crept away and disappeared into the mountains. His heart was already in England, where his son was surely waiting for him.

* * *

The monastery of Saint Bernard was situated deep in the Alps. Here, alone in the wilderness, with the nearest village about four miles away, the monks prayed for the rest of Christendom, begging God for forgiveness and asking for His blessings. The monks were self-sufficient, for they grew all their own food. Although the Alps seemed like one of the most inhospitable places in Christendom, they had managed to find a patch of fertile ground; it was more than enough to sustain them. Sometimes, they even had enough produce to sell in the nearby market.

Abbot Abelard had lived in the monastery ever since he had come here as a novice when he had been a boy of twelve. This was the only life he knew, and the only one he cared for. The wars of men did not reach him here, for armies did not venture into this treacherous mountain range. He breathed in the mountain air, thanking God for His abundance. After a storm of sleet, snow had come, covering everything on Earth in a cool white coverlet. The muddy ground had frozen, and the snow was crisp beneath his feet.

A shout broke through his musings.

"Reverend Father!" shouted one of the novices. "We've found a man outside in the snow!"

A man? Who would come out here, now that winter had set? He followed the boy outside. There was indeed a man lying on the doorstep of the monastery. His hair and skin were as dark as a Moor's, and he bore many wounds on his body. Compassion and pity overwhelmed the old monk. "Bring him in," he said. "He'll freeze to death otherwise, and that would be unthinkable."

"Is it safe?" asked the novice. Abelard raised an eyebrow.

"My son, does he look like he can harm us now?" he asked. "Those who show pity to a stranger on their doorstep will in turn be shown pity on the day of the Last Judgement. Come, call two of our brothers. Bring him in."

Two other monks carried the man inside, careful not to further aggravate his wounds. They set up a pallet by the fire in the infirmary, and the abbot himself washed the man's wounds with warm water. The stranger did not wake. He did not look as if he had been assailed by brigands, for the wounds were both new and old. It was as if he was an escaped prisoner, and yet, by his noble profile, Abelard doubted that this man was a prisoner. Was he a soldier, perhaps, or even a knight who had lost his way? Then again, the Holy Roman Emperor was not at war with France. As the abbot washed the man's raw wrists, something on the stranger's rough calloused palm caught his eye. The old man dropped the rag he was holding and hurriedly blessed himself.

The stranger bore Christ's Holy Cross on his hand.

* * *

**A/N: **No prizes for guessing who Abelard found, but you're free to guess anyway ;). I hope you enjoyed that.


	8. Wrath of Rome

**Chance Encounter: Legacy of the Third Age**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything that you recognize.

**Chapter 7: Wrath of Rome**

He could hear soft voices speaking, but he could not understand what they were saying; the voices were so distant and much too quiet. His body ached, and he felt cold. He was shaking uncontrollably. He called out from his dark dreams. Only one person mattered right now; he just wanted his son.

Abelard heard the man moaning and he immediately went to him. He was burning with fever, and violent shivers wracked his body. Sweat beaded his forehead, and he was thrashing as if trapped in a terrible nightmare. The old monk reached for the rag in a basin beside the bed. Squeezing most of the water out of the cloth, he placed it on the man's forehead in the hopes of bringing the fever down.

He kept watch over his patient throughout the night, replacing the cloth when it got too warm and feeding him willowbark tea. The monk was certain that the man had been sent by God. Why else would he bear the mark of Christ? 'Are you testing me, Lord?' thought the monk. The night was silent. Nothing ventured out into the cold winter darkness. The infirmary was only illuminated by the fire in the hearth. The flames cast long flickering shadows on the walls. Every now and then, he fed another piece of wood to the fire.

The man kept on moaning, and as the syllables became more distinct, Abelard realized that he was repeating one word over and over again. _Barisian_. Who was this Barisian? His comrade, perhaps? The monk laid his hand on the man's shoulder, still murmuring prayers underneath his breath, trying to drive out the evil which was causing this fever. He was not prepared when the man suddenly grasped his wrist. His eyes opened; they were unfocused.

"Who...?" he croaked.

"You're safe now, my friend," said Abelard. "You are amongst your brothers in Christ."

The man sat up, and then hissed as he aggravated the wounds on his body. Abelard winced on his behalf. "What is the matter?" he asked.

"Don't think you can fool me with your tricks," said the stranger. He was exhausted, but to Abelard, it seemed as if he was attempting to hide his weakness. Why was he so nervous?

"Tricks?" said Abelard, confused. "My friend, we found you in the snow, outside the monastery. You are badly injured. I am only trying to help you."

"Help...?" said the man. "I have not had that for a long time."

"Lie down," said Abelard, freeing his wrist from the man's grip. "Do you remember what happened?"

Balian looked up at the lined face of the old monk. It held no deceit, only genuine compassion. Was it possible that even though it was the Church which had driven him to this condition, the Church would also save him? He wasn't sure he trusted the monk, but what choice did he have? His body was so weak that he knew he could not fight his way out of anything at the moment. He lay back down.

They regarded each other for a long time. Neither of them spoke. Abelard was waiting for some explanation, and Balian was trying to put off actually needing to give an explanation for why he was out here, alone in the wilderness, and badly wounded. It was the monk who broke the silence. "Do you have a name, my friend?"

"Balian," said the man before he could think about the implications of that name.

"Balian, as in Balian of Ibelin?" said the monk. The man closed his eyes and berated himself for his stupidity. Of course the monk would know of Balian of Ibelin. All of Christendom probably knew and cursed his name.

"Yes," he said.

The monk could now understand why the man was so nervous. He was a heretic, and yet, how could a heretic be marked by God? He could sense no evil about him. Those brown eyes were honest, and he had not tried to lie to Abelard, even though he knew that admitting to being Balian of Ibelin was dangerous. "Let me guess," said the monk. "You were trying to escape from the agents of Rome." The man nodded. Abelard indicated his multiple wounds. "They did this to you?"

"By order of the Papal Legate," said Balian. "He wanted something from me, and I wouldn't give it to him."

"What do you have that the Pope could possibly want?"

"The Legate believes that I know of a pagan object, the Irminsul."

Abelard remembered the Irminsul from his readings about Charles the Magnificent. It was said that the Emperor had destroyed it. Why was the Pope interested in it at all? As he pondered the question, he grew cold. There was something sinister about this. "Balian," he said. "I know this is difficult, but I need you to trust me. I won't hand you over to Rome, but I need you to tell me what is going on."

"Where do I even start?" said the man. "The story is long and confusing. Even I don't fully understand it."

"Just tell me as best as you can," said Abelard. "All I know is that God works in mysterious ways." He took Balian's hand and opened it to reveal the cross on the palm. The monk traced the mark with a gnarled arthritic finger. "And He has marked you as His own."

Balian started his story hesitantly, telling the old monk about his life as a bastard child in a poor French village, and then going on to his experiences in the Holy Land, including every bloody detail. He could see that the monk felt uncomfortable when he heard the truth about those who took the cross. He couldn't blame him, for the truth was so different from the tales which came back to Europe. No one spoke of the suffering of ordinary men, women and children when they talked about the Crusades. The Church did not want the masses in Europe to know about the atrocities, where Christians, Muslims and Jews alike were cut down by the merciless swords of the so-called 'Warriors of God'.

As Abelard heard Balian's stories of a distant land where trees spoke, he became more and more convinced that either the man was mad, or he was truly blessed. Or he was just a very good story teller. However, judging from his inability to find the right words, Abelard doubted that the man was any good at telling tales.

"You were right when you said that it was confusing," said Abelard.

"I'll understand if you don't believe me," said Balian.

"Strangely enough, I do," said the monk with a kindly smile. "Perhaps Man is gifted with the innate ability to identify the Truth when he hears it."

"I wish that was true," said Balian softly.

* * *

To say that Ambrosius was incensed was an understatement. "He _escaped_," he said through gritted teeth. "You let him escape?"

"It was during the storm," said Paul. "No one saw him during the confusion. It was as if God Himself delivered him—"

"He is a heretic!" said Ambrosius. "God does not protect heretics! Would I not know? It was the laxity of you and your men which allowed him to escape!" The Inquisitor stiffened. Such accusations were uncalled for, and they angered him. However, Ambrosius de Magio was the Papal Legate. His word was the word of the Pope, and the Pope was God's representative on earth.

"We will look for him," said the Inquisitor, bowing. He trudged through the mud and back to the horses. His men were exhausted, but they had a duty to the Holy Father and to God. Paul swung into the saddle and yanked at the reins to pull his horse's head up. "He'll have headed west," he said. "We start there." He drove his spurs into his horse's flanks, making the animal snort and leap forwards. When they found that man, he would wish he had gone to Hell instead.

* * *

Legolas stared up at the mountains which loomed before them. They reminded him of Caradhras, and he had not had good experiences with the Misty Mountains. "I don't suppose they have mines which go underneath, laddie," said Gimli, going to stand beside the elf. He leaned on his axe, deep in thought.

"Do we have to go through the mountains?" asked Paris with a grimace. Mountainous terrain was bad enough, but cold mountainous terrain, possibly with hostile people, was worse.

"That's where the compass be pointin'," said Barbossa, peering at the piece of navigational equipment in Barisian's hand.

"Then we're going up into the mountains," said Legolas, striding forwards. Achilles sighed. That elf was so stubborn sometimes. He glanced back at the others. They were tired and almost ready to drop. Elizabeth was holding onto Will for support, and Briseis looked like she was about to cry at the prospect of having to climb over those snow covered peaks. It had grown colder over the last few weeks and most of them, used to warmer climates, were finding it hard to adjust. The storm which had hit them a week ago had drained most of them of any enthusiasm they'd had.

'And what about your friend, Achilles of the Myrmidon?' said a voice inside his head. 'Are you just going to leave him?' That idea did not sit well with Achilles. He was not going to turn back like some coward just because of bad weather. He would rather die than be remembered as a man who left a friend to death. The Greek stubbornly followed Legolas, dragging Walnut behind him.

"Come on," said Will to the others. "We're just going to have to keep going until we find Balian. I'm not willing to admit defeat just yet."

"Aye!" said Anna-Maria. "So get yer arses movin', ya bilge rats. We of the Caribbean are goin' ta show these continentals somethin' good!"

* * *

Life in the monastery was peaceful. Balian, as soon as he was well enough to get out of bed, quickly adapted to the routines of prayer and work. The monastery was made up of a series of plain stone buildings with thatched roofs. The most important of those was the chapel, and it alone had a roof of tiles. It was a round building, with very few windows to let in the light. The windows had decorations of stained glass and during the rare occasion when the sun was not covered by clouds, sunlight would cast rainbows on the stone floor of the chapel and over anyone who was in there at that moment. Despite the monastery's rustic beauty and welcoming atmosphere, Balian felt awkward here, especially while all the other monks were praying. He had no intention of staying here forever. His heart was with his child, all alone on a strange isle with enemies all around him. As a father, he should be there to protect Barisian.

Abelard recognized the restlessness in the man, and he knew he could not keep Balian within the walls of the monastery like a caged eagle. Some men were not born for a life in the cloisters, but to fly freely and to bring God to every corner of the earth. Somehow, despite his irreligiousness, Abelard felt that Balian was one of the latter. He had the air of a prophet about him, although he would never tell the man that. Were not all prophets driven from their homelands because of their beliefs? The monk indulged in the thought that he had in fact given shelter to one who was dear to God. It brought him great comfort.

Some of the other monks, however, were not so pleased to hide a heretic in their midst, especially not Brother Bonifaz. He considered it sacrilege to have layman inside the monastery, and to hide a heretic from the Church's justice was unthinkable. There was more to his displeasure than the simple act of hiding a man from Roman justice. He had been in the monastery for longer than Abelard, and yet, the former abbot had ensured that it was Abelard who had succeeded him. For Bonifaz, this was a great injustice. Had he not been just as devout, if not more so?

And now, Abelard was openly flouting monastic rules. The other monk could not just stand by and do nothing. The agents of Rome must still be in this region, searching for their escaped prisoner. If Bonifaz could somehow find them, then Abelard's time as abbot would be over, and he would take his place, for surely the Pope would reward someone who had helped in the recapture of a heretic.

* * *

"Curse these mountains," muttered Jack. His fingers were numb with cold. Moisture had collected on the tip of his nose. He sneezed. "I swear, if I ever get back to me ship, ole Jack is goin' to stay on the sea forever."

"You won't even step on shore for rum?" said Will, trying to lighten up the moment. They were travelling in single file for the frozen path was very narrow. Achilles, leading the horse, was bringing up the rear. Barisian, Agnes and Heloise huddled together on Walnut's back to try to conserve heat. The sky above them was full of dark clouds heavy with snow.

The Greek, wrapped in an assortment of old cloaks and blankets, glanced back at his protégés. "Are you all right?" he asked. Women and children were weaker than men, and even he was finding this journey rather difficult. As if in response, Barisian let out a series of sneezes.

"He's got a cold," said Briseis.

"Has anyone _not_ got a cold?" said Elizabeth. Her nose was red.

"Legolas hasn't," said Will promptly, glancing enviously at the elf. The cold did not seem to affect him at all. In fact, if it wasn't for his determination, they would have already turned and tried to find a way around the mountains.

"I don't think we actually have time to think about colds," said Paris. "Balian might be in Rome by now, and we're nowhere close."

* * *

As the days passed, Paul grew more and more impatient. No one even dared to speak to him, for fear of incurring his wrath. Fulk was certain that their prisoner had already frozen to death in the wilderness. How could a wounded man survive winter in the Alps? However, he kept his own counsel and did whatever he was told to do; he was no leader.

They had almost given up hope of ever finding the prisoner when they came across two monks collecting firewood.

"Hail, brothers in Christ," Paul said. "What brings you out here?"

"Our monastery is nearby," replied the older of the two monks. "There is not enough firewood, and we have been forced to wander further out." He looked the men up and down. "Are you...Inquisitors?"

"Yes," said Paul. "We search for an escaped prisoner; a heretic."

Bonifaz smiled and blessed God for sending him this chance to prove his worth. "Is he the one who gave Jerusalem away?" he asked.

"Indeed," said Paul. "Do you know where he is, good brother?"

"Of course," said Bonifaz. "Our abbot hides him and protects him. He treats him like an honoured guest when he should be brought to justice for his crimes. I do not understand the abbot's motives, but it is not in place to question the Reverend Father."

"Does your loyalty lie with your abbot or with the Church?" asked Paul. His gauntleted hand strayed to his sword.

"With the Church, of course," said Bonifaz.

"Good. Lead me to the monastery, brother. We have a heretic to bring to justice."

* * *

Balian hauled the bucket of water out of the well. There was satisfaction in doing simple tasks like this. His body had not yet fully recovered, but he had no desire to simply lie there in the infirmary and do nothing. He knew he had to leave soon; his son needed him, and moreover, his presence endangered the monastery. He had seen the viciousness of the Inquisitors and he had no doubt that they would punish the monks for hiding him if they ever found out.

The sound of hoof beats made him look up. They were drawing nearer to the monastery. "No," he whispered. His worst fears had come true, and now the monks would pay. Forgetting his bucket of water, he ran to find the abbot.

Abelard was in his study, reading his Bible. He held the book close to his face, for his eyes no longer worked as well as they had in his youth. He dropped the book when his door burst open. There stood Balian, his chest heaving as he panted. "Reverend Father, they're coming for me," he said.

"Who?" asked Abelard, standing up slowly, using his desk for support.

"The Inquisitors," said Balian. "If they know you've been helping me, they'll raze this place to the ground and kill everyone."

"You must leave," said the old man, going over to Balian and grabbing his arm. "There is a back door." He dragged the young man out of the study, only to run into a young novice.

"Reverend Father," said the boy. "Brother Bonifaz has brought the agents of Rome here, and they're waiting at the door. Should we let them in?"

Abelard and Balian looked at each other. "Quickly," said Abelard to the younger man. "Go behind the shed where we store the wood. The door is there, concealed by vines." Although the thought of escaping and finding his son was very tempting, Balian knew that he would never be able to live with knowing that he had caused the deaths of people who had helped him. The taste of freedom was sweet, but it would turn to bitterness if he went against what his conscience dictated. He stopped the old monk.

"Reverend Father, listen to me," he said, looking the old man in the eye. "It's too late. Brother Bonifaz knows I'm here. There is only one way. You must hand me over to them, and perhaps they will spare this monastery. Tell them that you only kept me here so that you could hand me over to Rome as soon as the spring came."

"What kind of man do you take me to be, Balian?" asked the monk indignantly. "Do you think I would hand over a friend to the wolves just to save my life?"

"Not just yours, Reverend Father, but the lives of all our brothers here."

"You are God's servant, sent by Him to do His work! I am no Judas!"

"Then perhaps it is God's Will that I go with them. I cannot let you take the fall for me." Balian bowed his head. "Please, do as I say. I will not be able to bear it if more people die for my sake."

Abelard grasped Balian's hand in his own gnarled one. "God bless you, Balian," he said. "You have a generous and selfless heart, but I cannot do what you ask of me."

"I already owe you too much!" protested Balian.

"Then consider taking my advice as returning the favour," said Abelard. At that moment, there was a loud crash as the door was broken down. Balian saw armoured men and horses pouring into the monastery's small courtyard. Monks and novices had gathered to see what was going on. Paul's voice rang out.

"Where is the heretic?" he demanded. "Ibelin! I know you're there. Come out!"

Balian and Abelard looked at each other. Neither of them moved, and Abelard refused to let go of the younger man. "You can't go out there," he whispered.

"My life is in God's Hands, Reverend Father," said Balian. "If He wants me to live, then I will live. If not, then I can't hide from my fate no matter how hard I try."

When Balian did not emerge, Paul grew impatient. Monasteries usually had secret ways out; the last thing Paul needed was to let that man simply escape through one such hidden door. "If you do not come out this instant, Balian of Ibelin, I shall burn down this monastery and drive you out into the open. You don't want that to happen, do you? Even a heretic like you must have some sense of honour."

When he heard this, the novice who was with Abelard and Balian turned to the abbot. "Please, Reverend Father, do something!" he begged. His eyes were wide with terror. "I...I..." The boy's voice trembled. Balian freed himself from the abbot's grasp.

"I must do this," he said to Abelard, and then he stepped out of the protective shadows.

"Stay your hand, Inquisitor," he said. "I am here." He stood there before his enemies, holding up his head for he had nothing to be ashamed of. Dressed in the plain woollen cassock of a monk, he almost looked like a prophet of old. The wind tore through his hair, sending it flying into his face. The man gazed up at Paul. Whatever fear he felt, he hid it well.

Paul sneered. They would break him soon enough. No one could escape God's wrath. "Take the heretic," he said.

"He is no heretic!" came a voice. The abbot rushed out to stand beside Balian. "This man is no heretic," Abelard repeated. "He is sent by God to do His work! He bears Christ's mark on his hand!"

Murmurs rippled through the monks and the Inquisitors. Some of the latter hesitated. To lay a hand on God's servant was a sin, was it not? Paul glared at the old monk, but it was Bonifaz who spoke first. "You blaspheme, Reverend Father," he said. "This man is a heretic! He handed Jerusalem over to the pagan infidels!"

"The Muslims are neither pagan nor infidels," said Balian. "They worship the same God as we do, only they call him by a different name!"

Paul snorted. "Enough," he said. "Is this not evidence that his is a blasphemer and a heretic! Take him!"

Balian did not struggle as they bound him. The ropes bit into his wrists, almost completely cutting off blood flow into his hands. It was his fate to go to Rome, it seemed, and any resistance on his part might bring down more trouble for Abelard.

However, the old monk seemed to have other ideas. He latched himself onto the bridle of Balian's horse, refusing to let the animal go, no matter how the Inquisitors tried to pry him away. They struck him with their horsewhips and their fists, but he simply held onto the bridle. Some of the other monks were coming to the abbot's aid.

"Reverend Father, let go," Balian begged of the monk. His hands were bound to the pommel of the saddle, and he could do nothing. "It is God's will."

"I refuse to believe that," said Abelard through gritted teeth. Monks might be men of the cloth, but they outnumbered the Inquisitors and they fervently trusted in their abbot. The situation was getting out of control.

"Anyone who stands in our way is an enemy of God!" said Paul, drawing his sword. "All shall bow before the Might of God!" He drove his spurs into his horse's sides, urging it towards Abelard and Balian.

"No!" shouted the younger man as the sword flashed. It came down without mercy on the old man's skull. Balian turned his face away and closed his eyes, but blood still splattered onto him. He could taste the metallic saltiness of it. This was the taste of sacrifice. The cold-blooded killing of the old abbot, instead of intimidating the monks, only made them angrier. Some of them created a barrier with their bodies, standing between the Inquisitors and the door.

"Move aside, brothers," called Balian desperately. "There is no need for you to sacrifice yourselves for me!" However, the monks would not listen to him. If their abbot had believed in this man enough to die for him then he was probably worth saving. Abelard had been a wise man.

"You fools!" shouted Bonifaz. "Why do you die for this heretic?"

"If you had not led the agents of Rome here, they would never have found him, and he would have been free to walk the path which God has laid down before him," replied one of the younger monks. "I became a monk because I wanted to serve God, not Rome!"

"Rome speaks for God," said Paul. He nodded at his men. Some of them hesitated, but others rushed to cut down those monks who stood between them and the door. Their blood splashed onto the cold stones of the courtyard, staining it red. "This monastery has become the Devil's sanctuary," said Paul. "We shall raze it to the ground! Let all the world know of the power of Rome!" The thatched roofs caught fire easily, and soon this little monastery nestled in the Alps became an inferno. Monks were rounded up. Those who resisted were cut down, and the rest were to be taken to Rome to be judged.

"What are you doing?" demanded Bonifaz. This was not what he had wanted.

"Do not worry, Brother," said Paul. "I will see that you are rewarded for your loyalty to Rome."

Balian struggled to free himself from his bonds. He did not know what he could do to stop the massacre, but he could not just watch and do nothing as those who had tried to help him were cut down by remorseless pieces of metal. However, his bonds were too tight, and no amount of twisting could loosen them. 'Forgive me,' he thought. If he had not come here, death would not have found this little monastery. His presence had betrayed them. The wind made by the raging flames caused ash to swirl in the air. Smoke veiled the sky, blocking out the pale sunlight. Had God turned his face away from his loyal followers? Why was this happening? Balian did not understand. He wasn't sure if he wanted to understand this terror and cruelty.

The company of Inquisitors rode away; the captive monks were walking in a single column behind him, bound to one another with rope which one of the Inquisitors had found in the monastery.

Paul rode beside Balian. The prisoner was silent. Soot stained his face, and his shoulders were slumped, as if all the desire to fight had gone out of him, but Paul knew better. Balian of Ibelin would never give up his struggle; he might be defeated for the moment, but his spirit was not broken. The sky had grown dark and the moon had risen, round and full like a lamp from Heaven. Soon, they would reach the borders of the Holy Roman Empire. Already, the terrain was less mountainous. "We stop and make camp for the night," said Paul. Turning to Balian, he sneered. "And I will make sure that you never escape again."

The man lifted his head. Paul expected to see at least some hint of fear, but what he saw made him jerk back, for within those brown orbs, he saw unfathomable anger and hatred. The intensity of these emotions chilled his blood and the Inquisitor had to suppress the urge to shiver, and then he berated himself for being afraid of this bound prisoner. Yes, he would break him.

* * *

**A/N: **Balian is now in a lot of trouble. I hope you enjoyed that.


	9. To Walk on Thin Ice

**Chance Encounter: Legacy of the Third Age**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything that you recognize. I'm just borrowing them without permission but with every intention of returning them, savvy?

**Chapter 8: To Walk on Thin Ice**

Legolas narrowed his eyes as he gazed into the distance. It was unmistakeable. There was a column of smoke rising from somewhere in front of them. Smoke meant that there was something there other than wilderness, and the elf was anxious to find out just exactly what. He had a feeling that they were getting closer and closer to Balian. He glanced back. The others seemed to drag their feet, and if he went on now at his usual pace, he would soon leave them all behind. Even Jack seemed to lack energy and enthusiasm; no one had heard him jest for a while.

"Come on!" he called, trying to encourage them. "I see smoke in the distance. Perhaps it will lead us to Balian."

"Me compass is leadin' us to the knight," said Jack, panting. He sneezed and reached for a filthy handkerchief in his pocket.

"Well, such a lot of smoke must mean something," said Legolas. "Perhaps that's where the Inquisitors are camped."

"One question," said Will. "They were mounted and they had a head start. How can we catch up so quickly?"

"You call _this_ quick?" muttered Elizabeth under her breath. She was huddled up against her husband and shivering. A woollen blanket was wrapped around her shoulders and she clutched it tightly as if it was her last link to life.

Legolas pondered Will's question. He had a point. "I guess we'll find out when we get there," he said. "Perhaps Balian managed to escape, and they're looking for him."

"Papa ran away?" piped up Barisian from the back of the column. For days, he had remained silent. The cold had not done much to encourage conversation.

"He could have, laddie," said Gimli, giving Legolas a look. The elf should not be getting the child's hopes up. It was better to be delightfully surprised than to be disappointed. The dwarf stared in the direction Legolas was pointing to. He could see the smoke too. "Well, lads," he said cheerfully. "The smoke isn't too far away. Just a little more effort and we can probably make it there before nightfall. What say we just walk a bit more and when we get there, we can rest?"

"Rest is good," said Achilles, holding Briseis close to him to try and keep her warm. His little wife was shaking rather badly and he was afraid that she would fall ill. "Any chance for hot food? I think we need it."

* * *

Black smoking ruins met their eyes. A few corpses lay scattered here and there. Agnes clenched her hands into fists. Who would burn a monastery? "They were just monks," she said in a soft voice. "Just innocent monks who lived in the mountains, praying for the world."

"Why would they burn down a monastery?" asked Will. "I don't understand. I thought Balian was their target."

"I think I may have found the answer," said Paris, staring at the ground. "Hoof prints. My guess is that the Inquisitors came here and burnt it down. Perhaps Balian did escape after all, and these holy men sheltered him, but the Inquisitors found him anyway. Look, these tracks lead south east. They're going to Rome."

Barisian bit his lip to keep himself from crying. He leaned against Heloise for comfort. The maid held him close as if she was his mother and rocked him, murmuring soothing nonsense to calm him down. Silent tears coursed down the boy's dirty face. This was all too much for a six year old child to see. No child should be subjected to so much violence, even if it was directed against his heretical father.

Legolas knelt down beside the cold stiff corpse of a monk and closed the man's eyes. He said a swift prayer to the Valar, asking them to protect the souls of these men who had tried their best to protect his friend. It had started to snow again. White flakes floated down. Soon it would cover everything, letting the monks rest with their monastery beneath a white blanket sent from their heaven. "We have to get to Rome," he said. "Balian will be in trouble for escaping. If these Inquisitors can burn down the home of their own holy men, then they will not hesitate to hurt him."

"I think they'll already have hurt him, mate," said Jack. "You just have to pray they haven't hurt him too badly."

* * *

Balian was bodily pulled from the saddle and thrown to the ground. He fell face down into the mud, but stubbornly picked himself up, shaking his head to get rid of the mud on his face. "Not so proud now, are you, heretic?" said Paul. He clutched a quarterstaff in his hand and Balian knew exactly what the Inquisitor wanted to do with it. He braced himself. "Get up, my lord of Ibelin," said the Inquisitor. "It doesn't befit you to cower in the mud."

Slowly, Balian climbed to his feet. Just as he was about to straighten himself, Paul brought the quarterstaff down on his shoulders with a very audible crack. The pain and the force of the impact made him fall again. The monks, and even some of the Inquisitors, averted their gaze and closed their eyes against such cruelty.

'This is not what God wants,' thought Fulk, pitying the prisoner. Heretic though he might be, he was still a man. He clenched his hands into fists, not daring to help Ibelin and hating himself for his cowardice.

"Get up," said Paul. When the prisoner did not move, he drove his boot into the man's side, causing Balian to utter a short cry. "Get up, I said!"

With slow and agonizing movements, Balian pushed himself up, knowing that Paul was going to strike him again and again until he would no longer be able to get up. "Come on," sneered the Inquisitor. "You don't want your accomplices to pay for your fall, do you?" His fear for the monks' safety made him force himself onto his hands and knees. The quarterstaff fell again, this time squarely across the small of his back, driving the breath from his lungs. Over and over again, Paul forced him to get up onto shaking limbs, only to strike him down. He shook from the pain. Breathing hurt and he could taste the coppery scent of blood at the back of his throat.

"The great Balian of Ibelin, traitor of the Faith, cowering in the mud at my feet," said Paul. Balian glared up at him. Words could not convey his hatred. He knew he ought to forgive but he could never forgive the Inquisitor for everything that he had done to him, to his family and to those who had tried to help him. Pride forced him to push himself off the ground. Furious that his prisoner had not broken yet, Paul struck him so hard that the quarterstaff cracked. He fell. Pain consumed him, and he could not get up again, no matter how much Paul goaded him and threatened him. The Inquisitor struck him with the broken quarterstaff until he was no longer aware of anything except pain.

"Captain!" shouted Fulk. Courage won over uncertainty and fear. "That's enough! If you hit him anymore, you'll kill him!" He wrestled the quarterstaff from Paul's hand and threw it to the ground in disgust. "This is not what the Pope ordered us to do! Only the Holy Father has the right to condemn him."

"You defend him?" said Paul, turning on Fulk. The other Inquisitor stood his ground. "He is a heretic!"

"He is also the Pope's prisoner, not yours," said the Norman knight. "You have no right to kill him."

"Kill him?" Paul glanced down at the prisoner. The man was gasping for breath, but still lucid. He bent down and dragged him up by the hair. His lip curled in disgust. "No, I cannot kill him. It is not 

that easy. But I will break him. No more will he seek to evade the justice of the Church." The Inquisitor pulled out a dagger. "You have no right to tell me what I can and cannot do, Fulk. You are subject to my authority." He turned to the other men. "Hold him down."

Balian struggled, but he was already too weak from his ordeal. It was not difficult to subdue him. His heart clenched with fear as Paul pulled out a dagger. "You will not run from the Church again," said the Inquisitor.

"You bastard," said Balian through gritted teeth. "May Satan reserve a place in the deepest pit for you." His chest heaved as a gasped for breath. Then he screamed as Paul plunged the dagger into his thigh, cutting deeply into the muscle.

"I'd like to see you run now, Ibelin," said Paul. Hot blood covered his hands. He wiped them clean on the prisoner's woollen cassock. Blood poured from the wound and stained the ground beneath the man.

"Christ," whispered Fulk, rushing to Balian's side. If the bleeding was not stopped, the prisoner could easily die. He tore strips away from the bottom of the cassock and bound the wound tightly. Balian's eyes were unfocused from the pain and the blood loss. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. "Come on, Ibelin! Stay with me! You fought the Saracens, damn it! Stay with me!" The only response he got was a soft moan when he pressed down on the man's wound. 'Please, God,' prayed the Norman. 'Don't let him die. He deserves to be judged by the Pope at least.'

Much to Fulk's relief, the bleeding did eventually stop, although Balian's injuries had rendered him unable to ride. The Norman insisted on bearing the man before him on his horse. "If he dies, Captain, then it would not bode well for you," he said.

Paul reluctantly agreed. Perhaps he had gone too far, but he would never admit it. Besides, the heretic deserved every injury.

* * *

Agnes stared at the patch of blood on the ground. She tasted bile at the back of her throat and it felt as if her innards had turned into lead. So much blood, and Legolas had said it was all from one man. She had no doubt as to who the poor soul was. She might not have known Balian well, having only met him a few weeks ago, but she knew him well enough to know that he did not deserve this. He was a good man.

Elizabeth hugged Barisian to her to try and give him some comfort. Even the battle hardened Pirate King looked sickened at the sight. "Haven't they done enough?" she demanded. "I do know something about justice and nothing said you could abuse your prisoners on the way."

"Men seldom follow rules," said Paris, swallowing his disgust. Now was not the time to panic. Balian needed them to think rationally about how to save him.

"They are about ten days ahead of us," said Legolas.

"I don't think we'll catch up anytime soon," said Gimli, studying the tracks. "However, lads, have hope. They've slowed down a bit. Their prisoners can't walk that quickly."

* * *

The frozen river lay before them; a vast expanse of ice. Snowflakes floated down and stuck onto its glassy surface. Gimli tapped the ice with the shaft of his axe. "Is it safe to cross?" Legolas asked him.

"Safe for you, laddie," said the dwarf, glancing up at his elven friend. Legolas' head was adorned with snowflakes. 'Does he know how much he looks like a sculpture, I wonder?' thought the dwarf. He bent down and pressed his gloved hand against the ice. "I think it is solid enough to hold the weight of a man, but what about the horse?"

"Walnut would know if it wasn't safe for him," said Paris. "Horses can feel it." He leaned against said animal's flank for warmth. Out of the entire company, only Legolas and Walnut seemed to be unaffected by the cold. The latter had grown a thick shaggy coat to keep out the icy air.

"It is going to be warmer in Italy, isn't it?" whispered Elizabeth. Jack glanced at her and then dusted some snow off himself.

"Haven't you heard of the Tuscan sun, luv?" he asked.

"Yes, I have, and don't call me 'love'."

"There be no choice," said Barbossa, looking at the river. "We be crossin' it."

Legolas looked at his companions. Most of them seemed to be a bit uncertain about walking across ice. "I'll go first," he said. If they saw him walking across the river's surface, it might just boost their morale. Valar knew that they needed encouragement. The elf set one foot on the ice, and then another. They all held their breath as he made his way slowly across the river. "It's safe!" he called once he was on the other side. The others sighed in relief. "Who's next?" asked Jack, crossing his arms and stepping backwards. It was definitely not going to be him.

"I'll go," said Achilles. He was not going to remain cowering on the wrong side of the river. Clucking his tongue, he urged Walnut onto the ice. The warhorse snorted and tossed its head, clearly not keen on the idea. "Come on, Walnut. It's safe. We have to get to the other side." Step by step, he coaxed the horse on.

Walnut's riders clung to his mane and the saddle so tightly that their knuckles were white. Barisian remembered his father telling him about the dangers of going across frozen bodies of water. If the ice cracked, then they were in big trouble. Then he thought back to when his father had crafted skates for him out of bits of wood and bone, and they had gone skating over the frozen village pond, gliding over the ice as if they were birds being carried on an air current. He could still hear Balian's laughter, and the boy wondered if he would ever hear it again. He was losing hope.

Perhaps the current underneath was too fast for the ice to properly form, or perhaps it just wasn't cold enough—none of them would ever know, but when Achilles and his company reached the middle of the river, the ice began to crack. The Greek swore rapidly under his breath. The ice beneath them broke, and they fell through with a large splash into the rapid freezing water. Walnut whinnied and lashed out with all four hooves, trying to get out of the water. Agnes spluttered and tried her best to cling onto something, namely the maddened warhorse.

To Paris, it seemed as if time slowed down as his companions fell through the ice. "No!" he cried, rushing forward without caring whether the ice could take his weight too.

"Stupid blighter!" called Jack, but he, too, ran towards their companions in need. "Gimme rope! Gimme a bloody rope!"

"We ain't got no bloody rope!" hollered Barbossa.

"Here," said Gimli, taking off his cloak. He turned to Elizabeth. "Give me the blanket, lass. We'll make a rope!"

Legolas was already at the scene, but he was as helpless as the rest of them. "Don't panic!" he called. "Break the ice until you find some solid enough to hold your weight!" The only thing he could do was try and calm the horse with soothing nonsense in elvish.

Barbossa tied blankets and clothes together with the best knots he knew, making a rope about ten feet long. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing. Will raced onto the ice with it, slipping and sliding as he tried to get to the scene before it was too late. It never occurred to him that it was possible for him to fall as well. However, fortune must have smiled upon them at that moment, because the path which Will took—the same as the one which Legolas and later, Achilles, took, was secure. "Here!" he shouted, throwing one end of the rope to the people in distress. "Take the line!"

"Barisian!" spluttered Achilles. His limbs were growing stiff and numb with cold. "Take the line!"

The little boy grabbed the rope, and Will hauled him out. Paris was on his hands and knees at the edge of the hole, trying to grab someone. The first person he caught was Achilles, the man who had killed his brother. However, he pushed aside all personal grievances. The Greek had redeemed himself somewhat, and they needed everyone if they were to save Balian. Paris tried his best to pull Achilles out of the water, although the Greek was much too big for him. Briseis was soon at his side, helping, as was Gimli. Together, they hauled him out.

Walnut, possibly the cause of all the trouble, climbed out without help and shook himself to try and rid his waterlogged coat of the freezing water. Exhausted, wet and cold, they made their way to the other side of the river.

"This is wonderful," said Anna-Maria, shivering. Jack pulled her close and tried to warm her up, but he was just as wet and cold as all the rest of them. "We've got no dry blankets or clothes."

"We need rum," muttered Jack.

"We need a fire," said Legolas. "Would that Gandalf was here. He would know what to do."

"Aye, that he would, laddie," said Gimli, wringing his beard. "But he isn't here, so we'll have to make do with you and me." He got out his tinderbox and his flint which, luckily for them, he had wrapped in oilcloth. Legolas scouted the area and came back with a meagre armful of firewood.

"I'm going to go and get some more," he said. "You start the fire, Gimli, and get them warm. I don't want anyone to die of cold."As if on cue, Barisian sneezed.

"That would just be anti-climatic, after all we've been through," said Jack.

For lack of anything else that he could do, Will was attempting to dry Walnut with one of the damp blankets, just as Elizabeth was attempting to dry Barisian. Gimli struck the two pieces of flint together, creating a spark which landed on the pile of wood shavings. A tiny flame consumed the wood shavings. The dwarf gently blew on it to make it grow, and then tentatively added a piece of wood. Legolas came back with more dead branches.

"You sure you don't want to cut some, lad?" asked Gimli, offering the elf his axe. Legolas shook his head.

"I prefer not to harm living trees," he said. "These trees might not speak to me, but I know they have feelings of their own. It would be unfair of me to harm them so that I might be warm."

"You elves and your trees," said Gimli, shaking his head. "Here we are, freezing to death, and you worry about the feelings of plants. Sometimes, I think I don't understand you at all."

Soon they had a merry little campfire going. They all sat around it morosely, each trying to get as much of the heat as possible. Briseis leaned against Achilles. "I could have lost you just then," she murmured to him. "I don't think I can bear the thought of losing you again."

"You never even lost me once," said the Greek, laying his cheek against the top of her head. "And you can thank your cousin for helping to pull me out."

"Why don't you thank him yourself?" Briseis glanced up at him. "You two must have been to enough together to not be enemies anymore. You're even fighting on the same side." Achilles looked away. He knew he should make peace with Paris once and for all, but his pride would not allow it.

'Damn it, Achilles,' he thought to himself. 'You killed his brother, and he shot you, but he also saved your life. He deserves thanks from you at least.' He resolved to speak with Paris sometime, just not right now.

* * *

Rome. In ancient times, it had been one of the greatest cities. What Balian saw there actually disappointed him. All the Roman wonders had become ruins. The city was slowly being rebuilt, with houses and churches springing up, but it would be a long time before the city was restored to its former glory. 'And I won't see that day,' he thought. Soon, he would be dead, possibly with his head on a pike, blind eyes staring out over the city, but seeing nothing. His leg throbbed with vengeance, and his entire body hurt. How he had survived up until now was a mystery. The rough travelling, the lack of sustenance, combined with the cold and his injuries, should have killed him. It even hurt to breathe, and yet, here he was in Rome, looking Death in the eye. "It will be over soon," he whispered bitterly.

Fulk heard him. It was one of the few times he had heard Balian speak. The pain in the man's voice filled him with irrational pity. He was sorry that it had come to this. If Balian had not been a heretic, he had no doubt that he would have wanted to befriend the men. Even now, he admired him for his stubborn strength. "You only have to repent," he said softly.

Balian laughed, but his soft laughter quickly turned into a painful coughing fit. Bloodless lips were stained with blood. "You know very little about this entire business, Inquisitor," he said.

Fulk was about to ask him what he meant, but it was already too late. They had arrived before the Papal palace, and Ambrosius was waiting there. The cardinal had gone ahead of them to inform the Pope that the prisoner had been on his way. "Take our guest to his new quarters," he said. "My lord of Ibelin will have time to think about how he will answer to God and his representative." As he spoke, he looked Balian in the eye, and the younger man gazed back, undaunted. Fulk helped the prisoner off the horse. The man's wounded leg buckled beneath him and if the Inquisitor had not been there to support him, he would have fallen.

Balian gave Fulk a grateful look. Apart from the monks, he was the only other man who had shown him mercy. "God bless, Inquisitor," he whispered. "You will be rewarded for your kindness. I know it in my heart." Fulk could only watch speechlessly as the prisoner was taken away deep into the bowels of the Papal palace. The Inquisitor had no doubt that when the prisoner next saw sunlight, it would be on the day of his execution.

* * *

The miserable group of people huddled together to try and keep warm. The fire was helping a little, but the cold wind was blowing the heat away. Legolas gazed up at the sky. At least it had stopped snowing and it did not look as if there was another impending storm. The elf stared up at the strange stars. At least the moon still looked the same, but these stars gave him little comfort for they were so different from those in Middle Earth. He could not tell the direction by looking at them.

"Can't sleep, lad?" murmured Gimli. Legolas smiled. At least Gimli was here, and the dwarf was the same as always, worrying too much.

"I'm not that tired, Gimli," he said. "Don't worry about me."

"Aye, but you'll need your strength once we get to Rome. The little lady said that it's a big city and there will be a lot of people guarding Balian." Gimli glanced over at Agnes fondly. "That being said, she only knows this from the books she's read."

"I doubt that Rome will be bigger than Minas Tirith," said Legolas. "I've seen enough of this world to know that these people don't build great things."

"They're probably too busy killing each other," said Gimli. "Pity, that. They could have used their intelligence on great works."

"Would you two mind not talking so much?" grumbled Will. The pirate opened one eye. "Some of us are trying to sleep, even if you aren't."

Legolas stood up. "I'll go get more wood then, shall I? The fire is getting low."

"Don't go too far," said Gimli. "We don't want to have to search for you too."

* * *

Agnes could not help but feel disappointed. So this vast expanse of ruins was Rome. She had expected tall glorious buildings with giant pillars of white stone and capitals carved with acanthus leaves. Was this all that was left of Julius Caesar's city?

"Time can ruin everything, even the greatest of empires," said Legolas softly, noticing the expression on her face. She looked at him. How did he know what she was thinking? Out of all of Balian's odd friends, Legolas was the one she understood the least. He looked young and yet he seemed so old, as if he had seen the rise and fall of great nations with his own eyes.

"I just expected something more," said Agnes. "This is where the Saint Peter died, and where his successor lives."

"As I said, time is the greatest conqueror of all," said Legolas, pulling up his hood so that it covered his golden head and his pointed ears. Jack had taken to not wearing his hat, and instead wore a rough woollen cassock which he had found in that ruined monastery in the Alps. The long garment covered his weapons and made him look like a mad pilgrim. Barbossa simply wore a cloak to cover anything that would make him stand out, although Jack the Monkey had earned the company a few odd glances.

"We look like a travelling circus," muttered Elizabeth. "It's a wonder no one has asked us to perform yet."

"Then you must thank whatever deities in this world for our good luck," said Briseis, looking around in awe. Ruined though it may be, Rome reminded her of a glorified Troy. It must have been magnificent during its zenith, and she regretted that she had come at the wrong time. The flag stones on the wide paved streets were broken and worn down. Bits of rubble and remnants of temples lay strewn everywhere. Suddenly, Briseis gave a gasp. "That's Apollo!" she said, pointing at a huge statue. The nose had fallen off, and all the gold filigree which used to cover his hair had been taken away, but that huge statue was unmistakeably one of the sun god. There was a wreath of laurel leaves on his hair and he carried a bow and a quiver of arrows. The sight of a depiction of a familiar deity gave Briseis courage. Perhaps the gods were smiling on them.

Achilles was more interested in the huge ruin next to the statue. It had four layers, each supported by hundreds of marble columns and arches. "What is that?" he asked.

"That's the Colosseum, I think," said Agnes, gazing at it. Here was a reminder of the glory of Ancient Rome. "They used to have fights in there; a barbaric practice, but the Romans loved it."

"What sort of fights?" asked Paris.

"Gladiator fights; they would pit one man against the other and betted on who would win," said the girl. "The men would fight to the death. At least, that's what I read." She shuddered inwardly at the thought of the gladiators' blood soaking the sandy floor of the Colosseum. So much pain and death for the entertainment and profits of a few people. Thank the Lord that they were more civilized now.

"Now that we're in Rome," said Jack. "Where do we start?"

"The best thing is to just wait fer the enemy to show hisself," said Anna-Maria. "'Tis still a big city, this, and if he's that important, they'll have hidden him nice and good."

"The wench be right," said Barbossa. Anna-Maria glared at him for daring to call her 'wench' but the old pirate was unperturbed. "There be nuthin' we can do unless they want to have a street procession."

"Or a public execution," said Elizabeth, shivering as she remembered how she barely escaped the clutches of the vengeful Jonathan Beckett.

"They can _try_ to have a public execution," said Achilles through gritted teeth.

"And we'll make sure they don't get it," said Will.

* * *

**A/N: **I actually know very little about medieval Rome, apart from the fact it wasn't as grand as Classical Rome and many of the ancient buildings fell into disrepair. Also, medieval people liked to re-use bits of old Roman architecture, so you would find columns from a Roman temple in a medieval church or something like that. Anyway, everyone's in Rome, and the fun really begins. :)


	10. Blasphemy

**Chance Encounter: Legacy of the Third Age**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything that you recognize; I'm just borrowing them without permission but with every intention of returning them, savvy?

**Chapter 9: Blasphemy**

Light shone through the bars of the tiny window in the door of his prison cell. The orange rays reflected dully off skin which gleamed with sweat and blood. Balian rested his head on the cold floor, resting his cheek against the rough stone. The place smelled of human waste and mildew. How far he had fallen. His scalp bled in various places; they had not been gentle with him when they had sawn off his hair, sometimes cutting into the skin. The remainder of his once thick curls stuck out in short clumps, matted with blood and dirt.

He closed his eyes; there was no point in dwelling on what could have been. In his mind, he could see his son, laughing as he skidded across a frozen pond. A ghost of a smile graced the man's lips and his entire being was suffused with love for his child. The smile faded away. He missed his son, although he was glad that Barisian would never see him like this.

"Remember me, Barisian," he whispered softly into the dark emptiness. One tear slipped from his eye and across the bridge of his nose, leaving a pale track in the grime on his face. If only he could see Barisian once more, just once; he wanted to be certain that his son was safe and that he would have a future, untainted by his father's 'heresy'.

He heard a key turn in the lock. The door to his cell opened. Balian narrowed his eyes as harsh light flooded in and lifted his head off the floor. "Come on," said the guard. "The Pope will see you now." He curled his lip in disgust at the battered prisoner. It seemed so improper to take this beaten man to see the Holy Father. "Give him a fresh tunic," he said. "Can't have him looking like something that the dog spat out." The other guards laughed, and someone tossed a tunic of undyed linen at him. His shackles were undone. He rubbed his raw wrists.

"Get a move on!" said the guard. He winced as he lifted his arms. His body ached from the beating which he had received at Paul's hands. The slightest movement caused him pain. As he stood up, his wounded leg buckled underneath him, and he fell to the floor again. Strong hands grabbed his arm and hoisted him to his feet. He cried out as the rough movement caused pain to shoot up and down his body. "Pathetic," said the guard, shackling his wrists again and dragging him out.

* * *

Pope Clement the Third sat on his papal throne, hunched over some documents which he clutched in his shaking hands. Ambrosius de Magio stood beside him, tall and erect, as if he was the leader of Christendom and not the decrepit old man who was beside him. The cardinal narrowed his eyes and smiled grimly at Balian as he was brought in, chained and beaten like a common criminal. The man glared back at the cardinal, unwilling to admit defeat, even though he knew that death was imminent. His guards forced him onto his knees before the Pope, not that he could have remained standing on his wounded leg.

Cardinal deacons, cardinal priests and cardinal bishops hailing from every corner of Christendom had gathered to witness the trial of one of the greatest heretics the world had ever seen. Murmurs rippled through the crowds as Balian was brought in. Ambrosius raised his hand and silenced them with that one move. Everyone knew who was in charge, and it was definitely not Clement.

"You are Balian of Ibelin?" croaked the old man.

"Yes," said Balian, staring at the Pope and showing no fear.

His trial had begun, and his ordeal, he felt, was coming to an end. He just hoped he could maintain his dignity and strength until the final moment.

* * *

For the first time in her life, Agnes realized just how painful it could be to wait and not know what could possibly happen. The odd company had found an inn, after lying and saying that they were pilgrims from the north. The girl had spoken for them after they had realized that the people of Rome either spoke one of the various Italian dialects or Latin, and Agnes was the only one who knew a language common to them all.

The rooms they had been allotted were small, with bare wooden floorboards and hard pallets. They were, however, relatively clean, something which Agnes was grateful for. "Milady, you should stop pacing," said Heloise, beating the blankets to get most of the dust out of them. "You'll wear yourself down, and that won't do any good at all."

"I can't just stay here and do nothing," she said.

"Master Legolas said that they would find out where they're keeping Lord Balian," said the maid. She still wasn't too certain about saving a heretic, but since Agnes seemed bent on rescuing Balian, she was not about to argue. Her mistress was possibly the most loyal follower of the Church and if she disagreed then surely she had her reasons. She was the most well-read person the maid knew.

"Where is everyone now?" said Agnes, stopping in her pacing.

"Well, Master Legolas has gone to explore the place, and I think Master Gimli has gone with him. Master William and his wife are taking care of young Master Barisian and trying to distract him, I think, and the rest have disappeared off to God knows where." The maid folded the blankets and set them down on the pallets. "Don't you think them all rather odd?" she said tentatively. "Where on earth did Lord Balian meet all these people? I can't help but think that he has been involved in some rather unholy business."

"Perhaps you should think less about the actions of your betters," said Agnes. "He is a good man; I have spoken to him, and if he carried the taint of the Devil then I would know." She seemed so certain that the maid immediately curtseyed and swallowed anything else that she was about to say on the matter.

The young noblewoman understood Heloise's uncertainties, but she could not be uncertain at the moment. She had come this far; it was too late to turn back, and she had no desire to do so. The girl snatched up her cloak from the back of a wooden chair. "I am going out for a walk," she said to her maid. "Tell the others not to worry." She had more than just a walk on her mind. To her, there was only one form of reliable justice; that was God, and his representative, the Pope.

* * *

Agnes stared at the towering pillars of the papal palace and tried to swallow her fear. Those magnificent marble columns had probably been taken from Roman temples as they had the characteristic acanthus leaves on the capitals, but instead of feeling awed at the artistry and the elegance, she felt as if these were the bars of a cage.

'You have to do this,' she told herself, taking a deep breath. 'A man's life depends on you.' She stepped forward and was immediately blocked by two guards wearing red and white livery.

"Not everyone can come in here," said one of the guards. "This is the Holy Father's residence, not a public forum."

"I come here to make a petition to His Holiness," said Agnes, trying to keep her voice from shaking. She drew herself up to her full height. "I am Agnes of Cormier, daughter of the Count of Cormier, in France. I come to plead with His Holiness and to beg him to grant my...my husband clemency."

The guards whispered amongst themselves for a moment, and then one of them went inside. "His Holiness is a busy man," said the one who seemed to be their captain. "But it is most likely that you will be able to see a cardinal bishop."

"Thank you, good sir," said Agnes. Inside, she could hardly withhold her elation. There was hope still.

* * *

Ambrosius rubbed his chin. "She says she comes to beg the Holy Father to grant her husband clemency?" he asked.

"Yes," said the man, bowing. "She hesitated, but there is no doubt that she said 'husband'."

The cardinal's eyes gleamed. "Well, well," he said. "We might just have exactly the thing we need to bargain with my lord of Ibelin. Send her in."

* * *

Silence reigned in the little room in the inn where the entire company had gathered. Jack kept on idly opening and shutting his compass, while Will leaned against the wall, his arms crossed. Achilles seemed to be particularly interested in the cracks in the wooden table. Cowering under Legolas' gaze was Heloise.

"She went for a walk, and you believed her?" demanded the elf.

"She had no reason to lie to me," said Heloise in a small voice. "Please, sir, she's never done this before. I had no idea..."

"It's obviously that you did not," said Legolas, "but your excuses are not going to help. What we need is a solid answer."

"There be no knowin' where she's gone," said Barbossa. "Rome be a big city still."

"Do you think she went to find Balian on her own?" asked Paris. "She is the only person who knows how to speak to these people, after all."

"That's what I fear," said Legolas. "She cannot possibly know the twisted darkness that resides in the hearts of men. If they could condemn an innocent man on the belief that he somehow violated their sacred laws, then they would not hesitate to accuse her of going against their deity as well, should she try and save his life. Negotiations don't work with these people, at least not those of the diplomatic type."

"What do we do then?" asked Achilles.

"We do what she should have done; we wait," said the elf through gritted teeth. His position was beginning to tax him and they could all see it. He seemed paler than usual, and his patience had been worn very thin indeed. The slightest provocation could make him lose his temper. The elf whom they all knew was not like that. His worry for the welfare of his friends and the responsibility of keeping them safe was a heavy burden.

"I hate waiting," grumbled Elizabeth. "It's better to strike first, and strike hard."

"Yes, Mistress Turner, but first, one must know where to strike."

* * *

Agnes had to fight to keep herself from shaking under the cold hard gaze of the cardinal. She curtseyed to him. "Your Eminence, I come to beg clemency for my husband," she said. She almost choked on the word husband, but it seemed more appropriate to say that she was pleading for her husband's life rather than for that of a man to whom she had almost been betrothed. Besides, she had followed him this far, had she not? It was almost as if they were married anyway.

"Yes, my man did mention it to me," said the cardinal most cordially. "Pray, what is his name?"

"Balian of Nièvre, Your Eminence," she said.

"And would he be otherwise known as Balian of Ibelin?"

Agnes almost jerked back. That name was the name of the man who had given Jerusalem to the infidels. Despite her knowing that he was a good man, the name still made her feel uneasy. "That I would not know, Your Eminence." Technically, she did not. Balian had not said anything, and until he decided to tell her, she would pretend that he was not Balian of Ibelin. It was easier to speak kindly of him when one did not think of him as being a traitor to Christendom.

"We shall take you down to see him; then perhaps you will know."

A man grabbed Agnes by the arm and dragged her to the door. "Let go!" she cried, trying to pry his fingers away from her arm. "You're hurting me!"

Ambrosius laughed as he rose slowly from his seat. "I think that my lord of Ibelin would like a visit from his young wife. It might even persuade him to tell me what I wish to know," he said.

'What have I done?' wondered Agnes as she was forcefully taken deep down into the bowels of the papal palace, through winding corridors lit only by smoky torches mounted in rusted metal brackets on the walls. Occasionally, she passed a cell which contained a miserable occupant. All of them were denying that they had betrayed Christ, and yet here they were, incarcerated because of what they believed. Were they wrong, or was the Church wrong?

Ambrosius spoke to one man who bowed and fumbled with a big ring of keys. He selected one and inserted into the lock of a heavy metal door. Agnes was pushed inside the cell. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she gasped. Lying on the floor was a man. His body was covered in dark mottled bruises. His dark hair had been shorn off and he was bloodied and beaten, but there was no mistaking it. She had found Balian.

Worry for him overrode her fear. She freed herself from the guard who held her arm in an iron grip and ran to the man she would have married if all this had not happened. "My lord?" she asked, reaching out with a shaking hand to touch him on the shoulder. He groaned and stirred.

"What..." he croaked. "A...Agnes? What are you doing here?" Alarm made him sit up. "Why are you here?"

Agnes bit her lip and bowed her head. "I came for you," she said.

He took her hand with both of his. "You shouldn't have," he said. "There was no need..."

"I had to know the truth about you," said Agnes. "I want to hear you say it. Perhaps I just wanted proof that I had not judged you wrongly and part of me hoped, and still hopes, that this whole business with Jerusalem is not true."

"Then I will have to disappoint you, because it is true. I defended Jerusalem and surrendered it."

"I know," said Agnes. "_They_ told me everything, the entire truth, even though I did not want to believe it."

He narrowed his eyes at her. Why had she stressed the word 'they'?

"Green leaves," she whispered to him. Balian's eyes widened. Could it be...?

"Are you ready to talk now, my lord of Ibelin?" asked Ambrosius from the doorway of his cell. "Surely you do not want your little wife to suffer too." Balian turned to Agnes. Wife?

"I said that you were my husband," she whispered, not daring to look at him, partly out of embarrassment and partly out of fear. "It seemed more proper." He gave a small nod; the movement was so slight that only she saw it, but it gave her a great deal of comfort. He was not angry at her.

"I have told you before," said Balian to Ambrosius. "I know nothing of the Irminsul and even if I did, I would not tell you."

"You are one of the most stubborn men I have ever encountered in my life," said Ambrosius. "You do know what the penalty for heresy is, don't you? Death by burning. It's a painful way to go, or so I have been told. Why taste the fires of Hell before your time? I can spare you that."

Irminsul? What was the cardinal talking about? As the conversation between Balian and the cardinal progressed, Agnes became more and more confused. It seemed as if this was not about Jerusalem at all. _Irminsul_... Where had she heard it before? Was it not in a text about...Charlemagne?

"Charlemagne destroyed the Irminsul, didn't he?" she blurted out. The two men turned to look at her. "It happened four hundred years ago." Then she cowered beneath their gazes. The cardinal's one was of great amusement, while Balian's spoke of great pity.

"You know very little, don't you, my lady?" asked the cardinal. "Perhaps your husband will speak more of what happened during the past seven years, now that you are here. Now, Balian, I shall give you some time to consider this, but do not think that I have given up. I have every intention of finding out everything from you, and now, there is something else to consider, isn't there?"

He turned on his heel, and the door was slammed shut behind him.

"Why is the cardinal interested in a heathen object?" asked Agnes, turning to Balian.

"He thinks it is a powerful artefact of sorts, and so do I. I would never let him get his hands on it," said Balian. "When you mentioned green leaves to me, I presume you were trying to tell me that you have met my friends?"

"Yes," she said. "They're here. I came with them, and Barisian."

"They're all here?" It warmed Agnes' heart to hear the renewed hope in his voice. No doubt he had despaired of ever seeing his son again. She smiled, even though it was too dark for anyone to see.

"Yes, they're all here," she said. "Even Walnut."

"I thought Philippe would have taken that horse."

"He did, but all the rest had different ideas, and Captain Sparrow was most adamant that they had a legitimate claim to anything in Nièvre."

Balian laughed softly at the thought of his royal cousin dealing with the equivalent of pirate royalty, but his laughter quickly turned into painful coughs. He could taste blood in his mouth.

"My lord?" said Agnes, growing concerned. Her hands sought his, and he crushed her fingers in his powerful grip as he gasped and continued to cough. She could hear him retching. In the dim light, she was able to see that he was bringing up thick dark blood. "Christ! What have they done to you?"

"Nothing that I had not expected them to do," said Balian. His exhaustion was evident. "I'm sorry that you have to be here, even though I am glad for the company."

Agnes looked down at the floor, feeling awkward. Here they were, two strangers, and yet they were here, facing death and comforting each other. "A dying man finds comfort in having someone with him," continued Balian. "Do you think me selfish, Agnes?"

"I hardly know what to think," said the girl. "So much has happened since I set out for Nièvre. Never before in my life have I felt so much doubt. At first, I thought it was Philippe who had put you in this situation, but now it seems that most of the blame must fall on that cardinal's shoulders. Has the Pope seen you?"

"Yes, and he is eager to see me brought to justice. Men who surrender holy cities to Muslims generally do not gain His Holiness' sympathy, no matter how wretched they are."

Wretched he might be, but Agnes could not help feeling that even in this pitiable state, he had more nobility than any other nobleman she had ever known. She was proud of him for being so resilient. "Rest, my lord," she said. "You need to conserve your strength if we are to get through this." She quietly hummed a hymn to stave off the darkness and dread. She could only hope that the others would somehow find out about their predicament.

* * *

Once he had removed his kohl and hidden his hair under a pilgrim's cap, it was rather easy for Jack to mingle with the general Roman populace, due to the fact that they were all accustomed to seeing odd-looking pilgrims from every corner of Christendom.

Contrary to common knowledge, the pirate did understand Latin. It had been necessary to learn the language in order to impersonate Spanish clergymen, as he had done so on numerous occasions. Of course, he was more familiar with the vulgar terms than with any other sort of vocabulary, but he understood enough to pick out the words 'heretics', 'burning', and 'plaza'. The former two were favourites of Spanish clergymen.

Jack cursed under his breath when he heard the news, not that it was much, although it was enough to determine what was going to happen. So, Agnes was with Balian, and both the fools were going to be roasted alive. Now, there only remained the question of 'where'. Suppressing the urge to find a tavern which sold rum, he wandered the streets of Rome a little longer. The entire city was talking about it. The defender of Jerusalem himself was to be executed. This was going to go down in the annals of history, and they were all rather excited about watching it.

'It'll go down in history, all right,' thought Jack when he heard that it was to take place in ten days in the plaza outside the Cathedral of St. Paul. 'They'll always remember it as the day they saw Captain Jack Sparrow.'

* * *

Ten days. That was not a lot of time. "So, what are we going to do on the day?" asked Achilles. "It's a little difficult to rush in there and simply snatch them from under the nose of the Romans. There will be crowds watching this, and they will get in our way."

"Thank you for that wonderful observation," said Paris dryly. "You really have opened my eyes."

Achilles bit back the urge to throw an insult at the Trojan. He wanted to make peace with him, he really did, but Paris was making this very difficult for him. "What do you suggest then, Prince of Troy?" said the Greek. It was as polite as he could get at the moment. He crossed his arms and glared at the Trojan.

"We need something to take their attention away from the execution," said Paris.

"Whatever it is that we're going to do, it will have to be very spectacular indeed," said Will. "People getting burnt alive are very distracting."

"We can blow up their cathedral," said Anna-Maria. "That'll distract 'em."

"But how?" asked Legolas.

The pirates exchanged glances. "I guess we have to hand over our supplies," said Will, reluctantly pulling out his private bottle of absinthe.

"Will!" said Elizabeth. "I told you to stop drinking that poison!"

"I only have a little nip once in a while," said Will, putting up his hands defensively. "And now you see it's a good thing that I have it with me."

"What about you, Mrs. Turner?" said Barbossa. "What surprises have you got hidden up your sleeve?"

All eyes turned to Elizabeth. She bit her lip. "Why are you looking at me like that?" she said.

"I know you can be a walking arsenal," said Legolas. The hints of a smile were beginning to grace his lips. "So show us, if you please, Mistress Elizabeth."

"You're all manipulative enough to be part of the English court," said the woman as she took out her supply of explosives. Even Barbossa had to be impressed with how much she had hidden on her person. He added his own explosives to the growing pile.

Jack reluctantly handed over his gunpowder. "Just as well I know how to make it," he grumbled. "How am I goin' ta use me gun otherwise?"

Gimli cleared his throat as he looked at the growing pile of explosives on the table. "Well, lad," he said, glancing at Legolas. "Do you remember what Saruman did at Helm's Deep?"

"You mean with that explosion which brought down the wall?" asked Legolas. "Of course I do."

"While you were gallivanting off in Troy, I got bored and, uh, started playing around a little bit." With that, Gimli produced a leather pouch and added it to the pile of explosives. "It isn't much, but..."

"You are full of surprises, my friend," said Legolas, grinning. "Remind me never to get onto your bad side."

"If you need reminding, lad, then your head is really full of leaves."

"Not to interrupt the banter," said Barbossa, "but this ain't enough to blow up a cathedral."

"I'm pretty sure they have gunpowder here," said Will suddenly. "Balian mentioned fireworks, and Imad said that his people traded with the Far East and with the West, so it means if we can buy fireworks, we'll have more than enough."

"Good one, whelp!" said Jack, breaking out into a grin. He slapped Will on the back. "Now, how are we going to get our hands on them fireworks?"

* * *

Was it possible to feel more pain? Balian didn't know, and he didn't want to find out. He was certain that his left shoulder had been dislocated. Lacerations, both deep and shallow, covered his body. Blood seeped from his wounds, running down his skin in dark red rivulets. "Still unwilling to talk?" said Ambrosius. He shook his head. "I really do think that we need the help of my lady of Ibelin, or is it of Nièvre? She might be able to persuade you."

"You're a shame to Christendom!" shouted Balian, although the hoarseness of his voice detracted from the desired effect somewhat. At any rate, Ambrosius was not an easy man to intimidate. "Men like you caused Jerusalem to fall, and men like you will cause the fall of the Church!"

"Oh dear," said the cardinal. "Those are strong accusations, my good son."

Agnes was dragged in. Her eyes were wide with terror. She looked from Balian to Ambrosius. The girl clenched her hands into fists to keep herself from sobbing out loud and from shaking, but she was not particularly successful with the latter. Balian pulled at his bonds, trying to free himself so that he might go and protect her, but it was all fatuous. "Well?" said Ambrosius.

"I have told you before that I know nothing!" said Balian.

"It is most unbecoming for a lord like you to lie," said Ambrosius. He stepped up to Balian so that their faces were less than a foot away. "Now will you tell me?" he said quietly. He snapped his fingers. One of the men brought Agnes over to him. The cardinal grabbed her by the hair and yanked back her head to expose her throat. He put the blade of his dagger against her pale skin. The girl whimpered as the metal bit into her flesh, letting a thin trickle of blood run down her neck.

"Please," she whispered. She feared death, and at the same time, she hated herself for her weakness. Tears of terror ran down her face.

As soon as Ambrosius threatened her, Agnes saw the fight go out of Balian. He seemed to sag, and he lowered his eyes in defeat. "What exactly is it that you want to know?" he asked the cardinal.

"There," said Ambrosius. "This is much better. Now, tell me, where is the Irminsul, or rather, the Silmaril?"

"I would think that it's still in Middle Earth," said the bound man, looking away.

"And how would you get there?" asked Ambrosius. Yes, the Silmaril was within his grasp. Soon, all of Christendom and the heathen lands outside of it would bow to his power. How his prisoner reacted shocked him.

"You want to go to Middle Earth, Your Eminence?" said Balian. He threw back his head and laughed. "Go and get yourself shipwrecked. Perhaps you'll find yourself under the eaves of a dark forest full of murderous trees, or lying at the bottom of the ocean feeding fish, either or."

* * *

Paris was most thankful for Jack's skills. Only the pirate could have found that fireworks merchant from Sicily. Through some broken Latin and a lot of gesturing, as well as the display of gold, the pirate had managed to purchase all the merchandise, and at a rather good price, considering this was their friends' lives that they were talking about.

"Do you think this is enough to blow up a cathedral?" said Legolas, eying the pile of explosives on the floor of their biggest room.

"I'm _positive_ that it will be enough," said Jack. "The only problem is getting the explosives _into_ the cathedral so that we can _actually_ blow it up, savvy?"

"I suppose you would have a plan for that, right?" said Paris. Jack raised an eyebrow.

"Why would you think that?" he asked.

"Because you're Captain Jack Sparrow!" cried the Trojan in exasperation.

"Now you're just not makin' any sense at all," said Jack. "To be sure, I have a great many virtues, but I don't have every answer in the world, savvy?"

Paris gaped at the man. Had Jack Sparrow just admitted that he was not perfect?

"Oh, it be simple enough," said Barbossa. "Ye just pretend to be a pilgrim goin' in ta pray, an' then ye put the explosives there, light the fuse, an' run."

"Most pilgrims don't carry a large bag which smells of sulphur with them," said Elizabeth. "Even I know that."

"Didn't Agnes say that the cathedral holds the bones of some holy men?" said Gimli.

"Saints Peter and Paul, to be exact," said Will.

"Well, that's easy then," said Anna-Maria. "Someone dresses as a leper, goes into the cathedral and pretends to pray for a cure before them bones of the saints. Then ya leave yer bag, shed yer bandages, declare that ye felt the touch o' God, light the fuse and run as if all o' the legions o' hell were on yer heels."

"That seems a bit blasphemous," said Will, but it works well enough for me."

"You're blowin' up a cathedral in bloody Rome!" said Jack. "Of course it's blasphemous!"

"I don't find it that blasphemous at all," said Elizabeth. All eyes turned to her. "I'm Protestant."

* * *

**A/N:** And I stop right before the exciting bit, as I tend to do :P. I hope you enjoyed the chapter.


	11. Burning Religion

**Chance Encounter: Legacy of the Third Age**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything that you recognize. I'm just borrowing them without permission but with every intention of returning them, savvy?

**Chapter 10: Burning Religion**

The crowds in Rome were filled with excitement, as if there was some impending festival, but there was no festival, only the execution of two unfortunates labelled as traitors to Christendom. One of them was the infamous defender of Jerusalem, and no one felt any pity for _him_. After all, he had handed over God's city to the infidels. That was unforgivable, and they had heard that he was most unrepentant about it.

Balian heard nothing of these rumours. How could he, when he was trapped underground, surrounded by thick stone walls, and only half aware of his surroundings? His situation had worsened, and Agnes could only watch on helplessly as his life was leeched away by the strenuous tortures which Ambrosius put him through each day to try and make him tell about how he had gotten to Middle Earth. No matter how many times Balian said that he did not know anything about the Irminsul, Ambrosius simply would not believe him. He tried to hide it from her, if only to keep her from despairing, but it was futile. She was not blind. 'At this rate, they'll have nothing execute except a corpse,' she thought, 'and me.'

She sat in the dark with her knees drawn up to her chin. The cut on her neck had dried and the flesh was beginning to knit together, although it was still awkward to try to move her head. The dim light from outside illuminated the cell just enough for her to see Balian's outline as he slept fitfully. Soon they would both be at peace. This was their last night in this cell. When morning came, she was certain that they would be dragged out and burned at the stake.

There was a scraping noise as the door was opened. Agnes looked up. "It is time," said the guard. The girl slowly got to her feet, and then realized that Balian had not stirred. Gently, she touched his shoulder.

"My lord," she said. "You must wake. The hour has come."

Balian groaned and then slowly opened his eyes. "So soon?" he whispered coarsely. "I'd thought this would never end."

"It's about to end now," said Agnes. The lump in her throat made it difficult for her to talk. Now that the end was here, she realized just how frightened she was, not of death but of the pain which awaited her just before death.

With agonizing slowness, Balian got to his feet, using Agnes for support. His wounded leg would not hold him up. "Be without fear in the face of your enemies," he whispered to Agnes as they were escorted out of the dungeons.

"Your son kept on repeating that under his breath," said Agnes. "He said that it was the knight's code."

"If he follows it, then I have taught him well, and perhaps I will not have failed so badly as a father."

Agnes would have said more, but as soon as they were led out into the open, the jeering of the crowds drowned them out. Soldiers had to line up on either side of the road to keep the more fanatical ones from mobbing the prisoners and killing them with their bare hands. Balian stoically ignored them as he limped on, but Agnes felt the urge to scream at them and tell them that they had no right to condemn this man. He was a lot purer than they could ever be; her time with him had shown her that much.

* * *

In another part of Rome, people jumped out of the way as two bandaged figures made their way through the streets towards the cathedral of Saint Paul, ringing bells and shouting, "Unclean! Unclean!" As they passed, a noxious scent followed them. The citizens of Rome covered their noses or simply fled for cover, for fear of being contaminated by these two lepers.

Beneath his bandages, Barbossa felt like laughing. So far, the plan was working beautifully. No one took the time to distinguish between the smell of sulphur and the smell of rotting flesh. The bandages had confirmed their fears, and they did not even bother to try and see past the illusion. Jack Sparrow's overdramatic tone only enhanced the performance.

The two pirates, or rather, lepers, made their way into the sanctuary of the cathedral. The bones of Saints Peter and Paul were housed in two magnificent jewel encrusted caskets. On the surface of these caskets were carvings depicting the lives of the saints who now resided within them. The carvings were so detailed that one could almost imagine those wooden figures simply walking off the caskets and becoming people in their own right.

"It seems such a shame to blow up this place without taking some of the shinies," Jack whispered as the two knelt down before the holy relics.

"Ye be wantin' to save Balian or not?" Barbossa whispered back.

"Shh! Not so loudly, ya bilge rat! They can hear you, y'know!"

"And they can't hear ye?"

"Oh no, not me. I'm good at being quiet, savvy?" Barbossa gave Jack a dubious look.

"Just pray, will ya? And listen fer the bell," said the older pirate, bowing his head and beginning to mutter something which sounded like Latin to him but not to anyone else. Fortunately, he was quiet enough so that no one could hear him.

Outside, hidden in the crowds which surrounded the pyre, Legolas and the rest of them waited. By now, the elf was certain that Barbossa and Jack were in the Cathedral. A loud shout from somewhere further down the street alerted him to Balian's arrival. He pushed to the front of the crowd so that he could see his friend.

"Laddie! There'll be plenty of time afterwards!" said Gimli, shouting so that he could be heard above the jeering. The elf ignored him, and he had no choice but to follow. "Foolish pointy-eared elvish princeling," muttered the dwarf, but he immediately fell silent when he saw the prisoners. How could such cruelty exist? He had thought that only orcs were capable of such things.

Balian limped past them, staring steadily in front of him. Without his hair and covered with blood and grime, he was almost unrecognizable. Legolas wanted to call out to him to reassure him that he was going to be fine, but his voice eluded him.

The prisoners were herded onto the pyre and bound to the stake, back to back. Faggots were piled around them and their crimes, or rather, Balian's, were read out, not that anyone heard. They were all too busy jeering at the unfortunate man.

Balian closed his eyes and readied himself. He did not regret his 'crimes' and if he was given the choice, he would repeat every single one of them, perhaps with the exception of fratricide.

Agnes winced as each accusation was read out. The man they were talking about did not sound like Balian at all. Those accusations were so unforgiving; they had warped all his sacrifices and made it sound as if he had done these things for his own gain. She sought Balian's hand for comfort. He glanced back at her.

"I'm glad that you're with me," she said. "I'm afraid."

"So am I," said Balian, squeezing her fingers.

"But I don't regret coming for you at all. At least my death will have some meaning."

The last accusation was read out. Bells rang, and the executioner lifted his torch.

"The bell!" hissed Jack. He pulled out his flint and lit the fuse before jumping up. "I'm cursed...I mean, cured!" he cried, conveniently snatching a golden candlestick and a bowl from nearby and then running out of the cathedral with Barbossa on his heels. All the while they were tearing off their bandages to reveal two perfectly hale men. People jumped out of the way of their flying bandages, for fear of getting contaminated. Little did they know that they had a much bigger problem to worry about.

Just as Jack and Barbossa fled out of the cathedral and into the plaza where the pyre was just about to be lit, a loud explosion resounded throughout Rome. Flames and colourful sparks in every colour imaginable shot through the windows of the cathedral and into the sky, whistling merrily. Coloured glass from the stained-glass windows were scattered everywhere.

There were screams of fear. The crowds of people who had gathered to watch the execution began to panic. "It's God's wrath!" cried Will to the crowds, to try and add to the chaos. Already, he and Elizabeth were making their way towards the pyre, and he was certain that the others were doing the same thing. The more confusion, the easier their task would be, for the soldiers would be too busy trying to keep order to notice this odd occurrence.

Ambrosius stared at the cathedral in shock. His disappointment of not getting the information he wanted was forgotten. How could this have happened? Was it really the wrath of God? Paul had told him how that old abbot in the Alps had insisted that Ibelin was chosen by the Lord to do His work. Had God really done this to save His servant?

"Save the relics!" someone cried. "We must not let the bones of the saints burn!"

Just then, a flying figure leapt onto the pyre, startling the executioner. The man was too shocked to react before he was bodily pushed down the pyre, his torch along with him. "You expected us, didn't you?" Legolas asked Balian as he cut his friends' bonds.

"Took you a while," said Balian. His voice was hoarse, but nothing could hide the gladness in it. From the corner of his eye, he could see Will and Elizabeth making their way up to the pyre, all the while performing an impressive duet to keep the soldiers of Rome at bay. Coming from the other side was Gimli, accompanied by Achilles. From somewhere, Paris was shooting arrows down on the forces of Rome just to add to the confusion.

"We did a bloody good job, even if I must say so meself!" hollered Jack when he reached the others.

With Legolas supporting him on one side and Will on the other, Balian managed to stumble off the pyre.

Blades were unsheathed as the men of Rome realized what exactly was going on, but they were much too distracted by their burning cathedral, especially those relics inside. The inferno seemed to be getting stronger. Every now and then, there was a new explosion.

"Seems the fire's found the drinks," said Jack wistfully.

"Once we get out of here, Jack, I'll buy you more rum than you can drink," said Will.

"All right, mate! I'll hold you to it. Sure you can afford to pay?"

"After them!" shouted Ambrosius, now that he had overcome his shock. "The cathedral can't be saved, but at least you can still bring the heretic to justice!" If he was not going to get the Irminsul, then no one else would either. Besides, he could not let Balian escape and tell the entire world about his ambitions.

People, civilians as well as soldiers blocked their way. Confusion reigned as people tried to either get away or go to the cathedral. "Out of the way!" shouted Will. "Out of the way if you want to live!"

"You heard him!" added Elizabeth. "Move!"

However, there was no place for so many people to go. The crowd still surged around them like waves in a storm at sea. Bodies jostled against one another. The air was laden with the smell of sweat and smoke. Legolas glanced at Balian. His friend was quickly losing what strength he had left. "Come on, Balian," he said. "Hold on, mellon-nin. Barisian is waiting close by. You'll see him soon." The name of his son seemed to give the man strength, and he fought to stay conscious. His vision was blurred, and his head was reeling, but he stubbornly put one foot in front of the other, knowing that each step brought him closer to his beloved son.

As they passed a particularly low building, Paris leapt from the roof to join them. "It's a complete mess down here," he said. "I hardly knew what to shoot."

"No wonder you missed half the time," said Jack.

They were at the edge of the plaza. Reprieve was in sight, but a contingent of Roman soldiers barred their way. "Not again," muttered Gimli, brandishing his heavy double-bladed axe. "Don't these men know that it is not a good idea to block our way?"

"What we're doing is pretty stupid too," said Elizabeth as she cocked her pistol. When in doubt, she had always felt it best to use one's deadliest weapons.

"Get ready to run," said Will, glad that the Roman soldiers did not understand him. A shot rang out, felling one man. The motley band of rescuers surged forward, practically throwing themselves at those barring their path in the hopes of forcing a way through. Achilles carved a bloody path before them; blood covered his sword in a red lattice and droplets flew from his blade every time he swung it. Anyone who was lucky enough not to meet his death at the Greek's hands found himself facing the powerful swings of Gimli's axe. Others were cut down by Legolas twin knives. The elf was moving so fast that it was impossible to follow his movements with the naked eye.

Jack stuck out his foot to trip a soldier who was charging at him. The man's momentum sent him flying into his comrades, deterring them. Another soldier fell away, dazed, after being hit in the head with a heavy golden candlestick.

"You stole that, didn't you?" said Elizabeth as she found herself fighting back to back with Jack.

"What makes you say that, Lizzie?" said Jack. He ran a man through with his sword, the slender blade cutting through flesh easily. "Bleurgh."

"Come on, you two!" hollered Gimli. "Don't just stand there! Run!" Looking over to where the dwarf was, Jack and Elizabeth realized that Achilles had succeeded in breaking the ranks of the Romans. Elizabeth ran first, with Jack bringing up the rear. As the group fled into a narrow winding alleyway, Jack could not resist turning back. The soldiers in pursuit paused in confusion. Why was this odd man stopping?

"Gentlemen," said Jack with a flourish, brandishing his stolen candlestick. "This day will go down in history as the day that you met Captain Jack Sparrow!" He flashed a grin and bowed, as if he was performing something, and then he was gone, having leapt onto the ledge of a low window and then vaulted onto the roof using a pole from which clothes were hanging, stealing a couple of drying garments in the process.

Jack raced over the tops of the houses, leaping from roof to roof until he saw his friends below him. He leapt down and landed just in front of them. An arrow barely missed his head. "What did you do that for?" he demanded, glaring at Paris.

"I thought you were the enemy," said the Trojan, lowering his bow.

"I knew you were there," said Legolas. "You were making so much noise that I could have shot you had I been blindfolded."

"Sure you could, elf-boy," said Jack.

"What were you doing?" asked Will as Jack rejoined their ranks.

"Let's just say it wasn't polite to leave Rome without saying goodbye," said Jack, waving his booty in everyone's face. Elizabeth snatched the stolen clothing from him. Although the dress was big enough to encompass both her and Anna-Maria, it would be good for making bandages.

* * *

Outside the ruined city of Rome, Barisian paced to and fro as he had seen his father do when he had been anxious about something. Where were his uncles? They were taking an awfully long time. Heloise sat to the side with her legs pulled up to her chest and her chin resting on her knees, muttering prayers under her breath.

"They'll be fine," said Briseis. "I know they'll be fine." She not only said it to comfort Barisian, but also to comfort herself. In her heart, she had no idea if they had succeeded or not. What about Achilles? She knew that he would get Balian or die trying; it was in his nature. His pride would never allow him to admit defeat.

'Gods,' she prayed. 'If you can hear me, then have mercy and bring them all safely back.' Back in Troy, the gods had shown the tendency to ignore prayers, but she hoped that in this strange world, prayers might be more potent.

"Look!" Barisian's voice broke through her thoughts. "They're back! Auntie Bri! They're back!"

When she heard it, Heloise leapt up. "Thank the Lord," she said. "They've got Lady Agnes with them, and..." She trailed off. Surely that battered and wretched man could not be the handsome and charming Lord Balian, but who else could he be?

"Papa?" said Barisian, unwilling to believe what he saw. He ran forwards. "Papa!"

Balian heard his son's voice, although is blurry vision made it hard for him to see anything. "Barisian!" he called hoarsely, trying to rush towards his son.

"Steady on," said Legolas, holding him back. "That leg of yours won't hold you. He's coming. Barisian's coming to you, Balian."

The boy flung himself at his father, and both of them clung onto each other so tightly that it would be impossible to pry them apart, not that any of the others wanted to do that. Balian was openly weeping.

"You're crying, Papa," said Barisian. "Big boys don't cry. You said so."

"I'm crying because I'm so happy to see you, _mon petit_," said Balian.

"Sure you are," said Jack. "You're a big softie, that's what you are."

Barisian grinned up at his father. "Speak the truth always, Papa," he said.

"I'm your father, Barisian. Do as I say, not as I do," said Balian. He felt as if a heavy burden had been taken from him. The sun had never seemed brighter. Now that danger was more or less over, at least for the while, his strength left him, and with a groan, he fell to the ground.

"Barisian," said Legolas. "Your father is hurt, and we need to tend to him. I need you to go over there and help Heloise and Anna-Maria with cutting up that ugly dress." Barisian nodded and did as the elf said. He was good at destroying things.

A folded cloak served as a pillow for Balian. The filthy rags which hung from his body were cut away, revealing his wounds to the world. His leg wound was red and swollen, and hot to the touch. "We'll have to lance it," said Legolas. "It's festering. Gimli, get a fire going. I'm going to look for some plants. There must be something in this cursed place which can be used as a healing salve."

Will helped Gimli to gather some firewood, and soon they had a crackling fire. "I'm goin' to go an' keep the knight-spawn occupied," said Jack, knowing that he could be of very little use in this sort of situation. He was not particularly good at tending to wounds, and since there was no rum, he could do nothing to help at all. Will took Jack's golden bowl and filled it with water, and then constructed a stand out of rocks so that he could place the bowl above the fire.

Legolas came back with what looked like a handful of weeds. "There really is very little in this forlorn place," he said. "But at least I found something." He set down the plants and then pulled out a tiny little dagger; it was only as long as his thumb, and it was extremely sharp. The elf put the blade in the fire to sterilize it, and then let it cool down. Lengths of torn skirt had been tied tightly to Balian's leg both above and below the wound, and the man had been given a wadded piece of cloth to bite on.

"Hold him down," he said to Achilles and Gimli. Legolas turned to Balian. "Are you ready?"

The man gave a small nod. Taking a few deep breaths to calm himself down, Legolas took his sterilized knife and then cut into the wound. He tried his best to ignore the muffled cries of pain.

Balian's entire body was tense as agony lanced through his leg. He knew he ought to keep still, but his body seemed to be out of control. His fingers dug into the earth beneath him and he squeezed his eyes shut.

Blood and pus spurted out of the infected wound as it was opened up. Ignoring the mess, Legolas applied pressure to the wound to force out all the pus.

"You're doing fine, lad," said Gimli to Balian in an attempt to comfort the man. "Just hold on. It will be over soon."

It seemed like a painfully long time. Everyone had fallen silent except for the wounded man. Barisian had turned pale, and Elizabeth was having a difficult time trying to assure him that his father really was going to be fine. She had taken him into her arms and was rocking him back and forth was if he was just an infant. She could feel him shaking. Who could blame him? The child had seen too much death and cruelty.

At last, all that came out of Balian's wound was blood. The problem was that there was too much of it. 'Valar,' thought Legolas. He had no desire to cauterize a wound, but it needed to be done and who would do it if not him? He was the oldest here, and he had been the leader up until now; it seemed that he would have to continue to be leader.

"What's the matter, laddie?" asked Gimli. The elf got up and drew him aside.

"I need to cauterize the wound," he said. "But I am afraid. I have never done it before, to be honest, and I don't want to cause him any more pain."

"But you will have to, lad," said Gimli. "He's losing too much blood, and the wound needs to be cauterized if you don't want him to get the rotting sickness."

"What if I don't do it correctly?" said the elf. "I am no healer, although I have often been on the receiving ends of a healer's ministrations. If only Aragorn was here."

"Aragorn might not be here, but I am, lad. You forget that we dwarves often work with fire. I've done cauterizations before." The dwarf clapped Legolas on the arm. "Trust me, princeling. It'll be fine. We'll get through it."

* * *

Paris felt ill when he smelled the scent of burnt flesh. His stomach heaved. He closed his eyes and tried to block out the acrid smell and the cries of pain, but he simply could not. And then, silence. The prince opened his eyes. Had something gone wrong? He looked over to where the others were, tending to their wounded friend. Blessed unconsciousness had come to Balian. "Thank the gods for small mercies," he heard Achilles say.

Crushed herbs were applied to the wound, and it was bandaged up. "At least he won't feel it when we deal with his dislocated shoulder," said Gimli as evenly as he could. Even the stoic dwarf was slightly paler than usual.

The man groaned softly as his shoulder slipped back into its socket with a muffled pop. They bound it in place with more strips of torn skirt. Briseis had washed away most of the blood, and they could now see how pale and wasted he was, as if life had been sucked out of him as blood was sucked out by a leech.

"He had such beautiful hair," Briseis said, wrapping her arms around herself. Achilles drew her close and she leaned against him.

"The hair will grow back, although I would've preferred to lose it in a less painful way," said the Greek.

"It looked more like they were trying to scalp him," said Will, clenching his hands into fists. "I thought Rome was supposed to be the epitome of civilization. Agnes had made it sound as if..." He trailed off as he glanced towards where the girl was. The young sailor felt a pang of shame; they had been so occupied with Balian that they had completely forgotten about her. Thank God that Anna-Maria had noticed her, and was talking to her now.

"How are ye feelin'?" asked the female pirate in a gentle tone which the others had seldom heard before. "Did they hurt ya?"

Agnes shook her head. Anna-Maria gave her a hard dubious stare. The girl looked down at the ground. "Truly, Madame, apart from a few scratches and burns, there is nothing much wrong with me," she said. "He took the brunt of it, always drawing attention to himself. I was such a fool."

Anna-Maria frowned. Yes, Agnes had been foolish to go and try to beg the Roman wolves for clemency, but there seemed to be more than just that.

"I was a fool to ever doubt his goodness," said Agnes. "And I now know how foolish it was to trust in the Pope's mercy. It seems as if there is very little mercy in this world. First the king, and now the pope. Has God turned away from mankind? We are all falling into the devil's snare, and we are none the wiser."

"Now _that_'s a foolish way ta think," said Anna-Maria. "I don't know nuthin' much 'bout God, and I can't speak for 'im, but with good people like our friends breathin' an' fightin', I know that evil won't win, an' there's hope in the world. Ye just need to look harder for it, 'tis all. Now, let me see those burns."

* * *

When Balian woke, he found himself being carried on Achilles' back. The sky had darkened, and stars were beginning to appear. He stayed still and silent, simply marvelling at the sight of open skies and forests, with nothing entrapping him. His body ached, but compared to what he had suffered at the hands of Rome, it was hardly anything at all.

"It's awfully kind of you to carry me," he said softly, startling the Greek. "But I do not want to be too much of a burden—"

"Balian, you can hardly walk on your own," said Achilles. The wounded man was about to open his mouth to argue, but Legolas interrupted him.

"You know he's right," he said. "However, since it's getting dark, and we are some distance from Rome, I do think it's time to settle down for the night."

The trees around them cast ominous shadows on the ground, but they also sheltered them from unfriendly eyes. A crescent moon hung above them. The pale light only seemed to make the shadows darker.

Balian was made to lie down and rest while the others busied themselves with gathering firewood and searching for food. The man would have tried to help, if Legolas had not been intelligent enough to assign Barisian and Gimli to guard him. Barisian, especially, was most adamant that his father followed the elf's instructions.

"Uncle Legless knows everything," insisted the boy. "And I know you're hurt, Papa, so you will have to stay in bed, the way you made me stay in bed when I had spots."

"You had chickenpox, Barisian. It was dangerous for you."

"And now you're sick, and it's my turn to make you stay in bed." The boy grinned. It was good to have his father back. He hugged Balian, remembering to be careful. Legolas had said that his father would break easily, 'like an eggshell'.

"It's good to have you back, laddie," said Gimli. The darkness and the dwarf's beard hid his face, but Balian could hear the smile. "We crossed frozen water and mountains to get you. I'm glad it was not all in vain."

"It's good to see _you_, Gimli," said Balian. He coughed, and he tasted the coppery scent of blood at the back of his throat. Perhaps Legolas was right. He was in a rather fragile state at the moment.

"Now, now, lad," said Gimli, wiping the man's mouth with his handkerchief. "Don't overexert yourself. You need rest if you're to go back to being the man you were."

"Are you saying that I've weakened, Master Dwarf?"

Gimli chuckled at the indignation in Balian's voice. "Your spirit seems to be stronger than ever, but you can't deny that you are hurt, Balian, so don't even try," he said.

Legolas had come back from hunting, and he was now busy skinning the still warm corpses. Blood stained his hands, as he cut hide from flesh. The hares were plump, and the fat sizzled and spat as the animals were roasted on their small but bright campfire. There wasn't enough meat to fill their bellies, but at least they were able to line their stomachs and stave off the pangs of hunger. To Balian, this tasted like a feast sent from Heaven. He couldn't remember the last time he had eaten food—real food. Those scraps his guards had thrown to him had been barely fit for pigs.

"Where do we go to now?" asked Elizabeth once their meagre meal was over, and the remains of it had been disposed of. "Rome is hunting us, and we can't just wander around living off the land forever." They were all sitting around their campfire. Occasionally, someone would feed a stick to the flames and watch them consume it, but very little was said. Balian was propped up by some folded blankets, and he stared into the flames. Elizabeth's worries were sensible. The life of a fugitive was not a pleasant one. As the flames danced before his eyes, he suddenly recalled why he was a fugitive in the first place. Ambrosius had wanted to know about the Irminsul, or rather, one of the Silmarils. If such a powerful artefact fell into Ambrosius' hands...

"We must look for the Irminsul," he said softly. All eyes turned to him.

"I beg your pardon?" said Will. "What's that?"

"The Irminsul is an old pagan artefact which was said to be destroyed by Charlemagne more than four hundred years ago." It was not Balian who said this, but Agnes. Silence fell.

"Look," said Jack. "I see absolutely no reason in runnin' after ludicrous, although lucrative, treasures, savvy? In case you ain't noticed yet, there are men out there who want our heads on spikes."

"It's not just a ludicrous and lucrative treasure, Jack," said Balian. "The Irminsul might be a Silmaril." Legolas sucked in air through his teeth. Silmaril? How did a Silmaril get here?

'How did _you_ get here, Thranduilion?' he asked himself. 'Perhaps a Silmaril travelled between the worlds, just as you did.' Now more than ever, Legolas wished he had paid more attention during his History lessons. Alas, he had been a foolish youngster whose mind had always dwelt on the great adventures which he had thought he would have. All he remembered about the Silmarils were that they were made by Fëanor, they were powerful, and...

"Wot's a silma-something-rather?" asked Jack. "Is it...shiny?"

"Yes," said Legolas. "It's very shiny, Jack, and I agree with Balian. We have to get it before Rome does, or else the world will be doomed."

"We're a cheerful lot, aren't we?" grumbled the pirate.

"One question," said Will. "Now, it's a simple one, and you might think I'm a fool to ask it, but where is the artefact?"

* * *

**A/N: **Did anyone mistakenly think that trouble was over for our beloved gang of miscreants and royals? Anyway, I hope you enjoyed that. Till next week!


	12. Unexpected Meetings

**Chance Encounter: Legacy of the Third Age**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything that you recognize. I'm just borrowing them without permission but with every intention of returning them, savvy?

**Chapter 11: Unexpected Meetings**

They all looked at each other, but none of them knew what to say. Will was right. How were they to find the Irminsul, or Silmaril, if they didn't know where it was? Balian grimaced. This was a lot harder than he had thought it would be, and he had expected this task to be difficult at the very least. Now it seemed impossible to accomplish.

"Well, do we really need to find it then?" asked Jack. "I mean, if no one knows where it is, then His Holiness—"

"His _Eminence_," corrected Agnes.

"—won't find it either," finished the pirate. "And I know what a cardinal should be called. I'm just callin' him His Holiness because I feel like it an' he's givin' all the order so he's Pope in all but name, so therefore it would only be correct to call the red-robed, black-hearted, whey-faced, grey-haired pseudo-holy man His Holiness, savvy?" When Agnes looked at him blankly, he winked at her. "I'm usin' it in a derogatory way, luv."

Elizabeth cleared her throat. "Can we please get back to what we were discussing before?" she said. "We are in a bit of a difficult situation here, as I've pointed out before. Now, to top it all, we don't know where to find that ermine."

"Irminsul," said Paris.

"Yes, that's what I meant."

"Actually..." began Agnes in a small voice, then she stopped herself. Her boldness, as suddenly as it had come, was gone as soon as everyone turned to look at her.

"Go on, Agnes," said Balian softly. "Say what you need to say." She looked at him; he was no longer the dignified lord who had gone to ask her father for her hand in marriage, but this Balian inspired more strength in her than the other one. If he wanted her to speak, then she had no reason not to.

"I think the Irminsul would be in what was Germania, or rather, the Holy Roman Empire," she said. "Charlemagne destroyed it supposedly, didn't he? Charlemagne was King of the Franks."

"And of the Lombards," added Balian with a small smile, "but I doubt the Silmaril would be in Italy."

"So we go to Germania, or the Holy Roman Empire, whatever it's called," concluded Legolas. Maybe Agnes was not as much of a liability as he had first thought. After all, she seemed to know something about the history of this place, which gave them something akin to an advantage.

"The Holy Roman Emperor, Henry, is no great friend of Rome," said Balian. "Not that he would openly defy the Pope, but I think he might just turn a blind eye to our activities if we give him a reason."

"Lad, after all the experience we've had with kings and holy men in this world, I'd say that that we should avoid emperors and courts altogether," said Gimli. "Surely if this Emperor has an empire, he would be too busy to notice a couple of weary travellers."

"That is true," said Agnes. "Henry's hold on the Empire is loose. There are princes everywhere who are sovereigns in their own right." She noted with some satisfaction that they were all listening to her and taking her words into account. This was so different from when she was in Cormier. No one listened to her back then, and she had never thought that these strange people would consider her somewhat of an equal, even though most of them were princes or great warriors and lords.

"Well, I'd rather not get involved with those either," said Anna-Maria. "Princes are greedy money-grabbin' bastards."

"Excuse me," said Paris. "That is a most unjust comment, and I insist that you take it back."

* * *

A few stars glittered in the dark sky. Legolas stared at them wistfully. Everything was silent. The trees in this strange land did not speak to him. He tried to reach out to them, but they did not recognize the Eldar. They had never known them. This backward place, although it had its own odd beauty, was stifling him. Why would a Silmaril even be here?

"You can't sleep either?" said a soft voice. The elf whipped around. It was Balian who had spoken. He cradled the slumbering Barisian in his arms, and the boy clung to his father as if he would never let go.

"Unlike you, Balian of Ibelin, I have reason," said Legolas. "You should be resting; your body needs it."

"I've slept enough in the past few days," said the man, shifting slightly so that he was in a more comfortable position. "You never did tell me how exactly you found me."

"I would have thought that you would be more interested in how we rescued you."

"That was pure luck, wasn't it? Something went wrong in the cathedral, diverting all attention."

"There is so much that you don't know, my young friend." With that, Legolas proceeded to tell Balian everything, from how they met Agnes to how they hatched their plan to rescue him. Balian's eyes widened when the elf spoke of how they came up with the idea for diverting the crowd's attention.

"_You_ blew up the cathedral?" he whispered, not really wanting to believe the elf. Although he was not a particularly devout Christian, there was still something rather disturbing about blowing up sacred buildings, especially if they had once housed the bones of Saints Peter and Paul.

"Actually, Jack and Barbossa did the blowing up," said Legolas hastily, seeing the look on his friend's face. "The rest of us only helped them to obtain explosives."

"What about the relics?" demanded Balian. By now, everyone had woken up, and they were all watching him.

Legolas looked at him blankly. "Relics?" he asked. Dread grew inside him. Agnes had said something about sacred bones, but the elf had felt that they were only bones, and therefore of no consequence compared to the life of a friend. However, Balian's reaction suggested that they were a lot more than just the remains of men long dead.

"The bones of Saints Peter and Paul! You didn't blow them up, did you?"

Silence fell in the camp. Agnes did not understand all this talk about explosives and 'blowing up' things, but it sounded serious. Even worse, there were relics involved.

Barisian was the first to speak, for he really did not understand the severity of the situation. "They blew everything up, Papa," he said. "_Everything_. Boom! It's all gone now. You could see the smoke from far far away. I love fireworks." He grinned. "It was really pretty. There were blues and greens and reds—red is my favourite colour."

"What's going on?" asked Agnes. "I thought God smote down the cathedral."

"If you think either Jack or Barbossa is a god, then you would be correct in that assumption," said Paris, inching away from Balian. Whether his face was pale from blood loss or from anger, it was hard to tell, but the prince was ready to escape should the cause be the latter one.

"We did it to save you," said Will, seeing that the situation was getting out of control. Paris' remark had done very little to alleviate the tension. "Your life seemed more important than a few old bones to us at that point in time, and I still hold to it. Call me a blasphemer or a heretic or whatever you choose, but I don't regret what we did."

"We all did what we had to," said Elizabeth. "Rome needed humbling, and we needed a diversion."

Balian sighed. "I am thankful for what you did to save me," he said. "But did you have to be so drastic?"

"Lad," said Gimli. "You always need something drastic. You're Balian of Ibelin."

"Now we can all be heretics together," added Jack. "It's much more better when you're not the only one being hunted."

* * *

He could feel his strength returning, slowly but surely. Freedom worked wonders on a healing body. Balian insisted on walking, or at least riding on Walnut instead of on Achilles or Will. Gimli had fashioned a beautiful staff for him out of wood cut from a large tree in the surrounding forest so that he could walk around a bit to help his healing leg to regain strength. The carved patterns on it made it more magnificent than any sceptre which Balian had seen, and he was very grateful to his friend.

The forests were completely alien to all of them. Balian had never been to the Holy Roman Empire before, and he was surprised to find that it was different from France. The forests seemed darker, and the sun was less cheerful. It was as if the power of a long lost religion still lingered here, in what had once been known as Germania. He tried to think of what it would be like in the time of Charlemagne. All those Old Saxon settlements mentioned briefly by Einhard were gone now, and the old gods had been forgotten. They had even forgotten their own language, and adopted Latin, although they passed a few villages which spoke a garbled version of the Roman tongue, mingled with odd words which were probably remnants of the old Germanic speech. No one, except the villagers themselves, could understand it.

Heloise did not want to be here. All this talk of pagan religions scared her, for she feared that it would contaminate her soul and make her unworthy to pass through the gates of Saint Peter. Then again, Lord Balian's comrades had burnt the relics of saints Peter and Paul, and she had known about it but she had not stopped them, so she was probably bound for Hell anyway.

* * *

Glass smashed against the wooden floor, and the pieces were kicked aside by booted feet. "How did this happen?" Ambrosius demanded of the Inquisitors. They bowed their heads and said nothing. "The cathedral is gone, along with the heretic and the relics!"

"Your Eminence," said Paul. "He had help from otherworldly forces. The men report seeing devils shooting fire at them, and I have reason to believe that there is some truth in their words, for I saw a being, too beautiful to be a man, jumping onto the pyre to save the heretic. No doubt that was one of Satan's servants in his fair form."

Ambrosius swallowed the urge to growl. He did not believe that Balian was a servant of the devil; no, he was much too blunt and honest for that. What Paul saw sounded like something that Lucius Aurelius had mentioned in his writings, having borrowed the description from his friend, the Gondorian scholar. The being that had saved Balian of Ibelin sounded very much like an elf. As that thought came to his mind, he calmed down. An elf would be rather noticeable in Europe, and if Balian could not or would not reveal the secrets of the Silmaril to him, then perhaps this being from Middle Earth could.

"We set out immediately," he said. "Reports said that the fugitives headed north, towards the Empire. I must find Ibelin before his hellish allies start their assault on Christendom, and before they can find the Holy Roman Emperor. Henry is no great friend of the Church."

"Why don't you deal with Henry the way you dealt with Ibelin then?" asked Paul. His world was a simple one. Heretics had two choices; convert or be killed, and anyone who did not adhere to Rome's laws, in his eyes, was a heretic.

"Deal with Henry?" said Ambrosius. He laughed. "I wish we could, but Henry is not an infamous lord with little power; he is the Holy Roman Emperor, King of the Franks and of the Lombards. I do not think we can afford to antagonize him yet." But soon, Ambrosius would have the power to overthrow every king on God's earth. The Silmaril would give him that power, and either Ibelin or one of his associates will lead him to it.

* * *

Cold biting winds tore at their hair and clothing. The travellers tried to stay as closely together as possible when they walked. Balian sat atop his destrier, holding his son in front of him while Agnes sat behind him. He could feel the child shivering, for it was much too cold for anyone to be travelling out in the wild, let alone a young boy of six. He wrapped his borrowed cloak around his son, holding him against his own battered body to try and warm him up with his body heat. Barisian sneezed and snuggled up to his father. "I want to go home, Papa," he murmured.

"So do I, _mon petit_," said Balian. He smiled wistfully as he remembered the fields of Nièvre in autumn, golden with ripe wheat. It had been a beautiful sight. Now more than ever, he longed for the simplicity of his old cottage. It had not been much, but at least he had belonged somewhere back then. Now he was traipsing all over Europe, hiding from the world. He kissed his son on the top of the head. At least he still had Barisian.

"There's someone up ahead!" came Legolas' call. The elf was the only one not shivering. His golden hair was being whipped about his face, and even though his clothes were travel-stained, he still looked like one of the ancient deities of old. One could not help but be impressed at his ability to inspire awe, even while travelling in the wilderness.

"Are they friends or foes?" asked Will.

"Hard to tell," said Legolas. "Most people don't exactly have 'friend' or 'foe' branded on their foreheads. But, if it gives you any comfort, Master Turner, then I will say that they do not look as if they mean us any harm."

Will pulled out his spyglass and put it to his eye. The first thing which caught his eye was the brightly coloured clothing of the men coming towards them. They had carts full of goods behind them. "Merchants, I think," he said to the others. "Do we hide?"

"I don't see the need," said Legolas. "If they're merchants, then they're likely to be more interested in our money than in our political and religious affiliations, and we have no money to speak of, so they should not be interested in us at all."

The men drew closer to them. The one in front was young, but he seemed to be their leader. He called out to them, but only Agnes and Balian understood him, for he was speaking in rather accented Latin.

"He's greeting us," Agnes said to the others.

"I know that," whispered Jack. "Yer not the only one who knows this obsolete language."

"Latin is not obsolete, Captain Sparrow," said Agnes. "It is the language of the Church."

"Aye, but ye can't use it to bargain fer rum, can you?"

The two parties stopped and regarded each other. Balian was helped off his horse, and he spoke slowly to the man, trying to pronounce the Latin words correctly. He would have been quite happy to let someone else do the talking, but Agnes was a woman, and it was inappropriate for her to do something like this, and he didn't trust Jack enough. The young man introduced himself as Giovanni Francesco di Bernardone, and he was the son of a cloth merchant based in Assisi.

"We are pilgrims travelling home," said Balian. "Unfortunately, we were assailed by brigands along the way."

"That explains your wounds, my friend," said the young merchant. "It is a bleak world, is it not, when pilgrims, who should have been offered charity, are attacked instead?"

"It certainly is bleak, Master Giovanni—"

"Call me Francesco. Everyone does." The young man invited them to eat with him, and they could not refuse this kind gesture. Crusty bread and rich cheese was brought out, along with pitchers of wine and water. They sat on blankets spread on the ground, and for the first time in many days, there was genuine laughter as the famished travellers filled their bellies.

As they ate, Francesco watched Balian. He did not look much like he had been robbed. As a merchant, Francesco knew what robbers did, but they usually did not attempt to shave their victims. "You're not pilgrims, are you?" he said at last. Balian, who was in the middle of breaking off a bit of bread from a loaf, paused.

"No," he said. Jack groaned. Couldn't the man be dishonourable for once and just lie? Sometimes, he wondered whether the man had a death wish.

"Then would it be right to assume that you were not robbed also?" said Francesco.

"I suppose you could say that," said Balian. Bit by bit, Francesco managed to make him reveal the entire truth of what had happened, although Middle Earth was not mentioned. The young man listened intently with narrowed eyes. He seemed to be deep in thought when Balian finished his story.

"That is a different version from what I heard of the fall of Jerusalem," he said. His expression was unreadable. However, he made no move to drag them back to Rome, something which they took to be a good sign. However, Achilles' hand rested on the hilt of his sword, just in case. He had learnt long ago that most men were unpredictable and untrustworthy at the very best.

"However," Francesco continued, "it is a more believable version, somehow."

"You believe me?" said Balian, narrowing his eyes. So few had believed his version of events that the young cloth merchant's unquestioning acceptance made him suspicious.

"Let's just say it's my instincts telling me that you speak the truth," said the young man. He extended his hand to Balian, who grasped it in gratitude.

"May God bless you for your generosity," said Balian. Francesco insisted on gifting them with cloth and coin, and would not accept any sort of refusal.

"You are pilgrims," he said, "and it is my duty to give charity to pilgrims."

"Well, since he insists, we should take it," Jack whispered. "We need cloth, an' gold." All the while, he was eyeing the bales of brightly coloured velvets and silks. Jack might be a pirate, but he was a pirate with taste, or so he thought.

Elizabeth ran her hands over the smooth cloth. She longed to feel silk against her skin again, but she knew that they needed something practical which could assist them on their journey. Neither silk nor velvet would do, but wool was tougher and would keep them warm in the bitter northern European winter.

Francesco gave them a bolt of good English wool and thirty gold marks. "That is all I can spare at the moment," he said apologetically. "My father will have my head if I go home without our profits. Go with God's blessing."

"You have already helped us a lot," said Balian. "I will never forget this kindness, and if we should ever meet again, I will repay you in threefold."

They watched Francesco leave for the Italian peninsula. His wagons left deep tracks in the muddy ground. The young man turned around a waved, and then he rounded a corner, and was out of their sight.

"That was an odd stroke of luck," said Will. Their surroundings had become completely still and quiet again.

* * *

Ambrosius and his Inquisitors were growing very impatient. Where could the heretics be? They had been methodically making their way north, towards the Holy Roman Emperor. Of course, it was quite possible that the powerful Venetians or the Genoese had hidden them. These people would do anything for money.

They had been riding for a month, living off the land just like any other army. As each day passed without sight or scent of the fugitives, the Inquisitors grew more and more frustrated. Especially Paul. He hated Ibelin, and it had gone beyond the simple problem of heresy. The man had humiliated him when he had somehow escaped from underneath his nose, and in Rome of all places! He had sworn that he would behead the heretic himself, even if it meant travelling to the icy wastelands to find him.

It was the fourth week, and tensions had escalated. The trees of the forlorn German countryside seemed to entrap them. Outside of his base in Rome, Ambrosius felt vulnerable. Yes, in Rome, he was often surrounded by walls and pillars much larger than these trees, but they protected him. Enemies could be hiding in these German forests. He was a foreigner in these parts, and as powerful as he was, he doubted that he would be able to exercise any control over young Henry. The Emperor was nothing like the feeble pontiff. He was at the Emperor's mercy, for the heartlands of Lucius Aurelius' Germania were also the heartlands of Henry's empire. God knew that the Hohenstaufen family and the Roman Church had been rivals for many centuries. If Henry did not want Ambrosius to find Ibelin and his accomplices, then the cardinal would never find them.

Forests gave way to fields, and soon a walled settlement with a motte and bailey castle came into sight. The wooden palisades protecting the town would not do much good against a proper siege, but apparently, it was enough to assure the inhabitants of their relative security. "What is that?" asked Ambrosius.

"It's a town," said Paul drily. His confidence in the papal legate had slowly faded. If he was truly a man of God, then he would know exactly where to find the heretics; all he needed to do was pray and ask for guidance.

"I know it's a town, Inquisitor," said Ambrosius. "What is its name?"

"I shall send a man to ask," said the Inquisitor. He turned to his men. "Fulk, you go and find out about the situation of that town. I daresay we would want to spend the night there."

The Norman nodded and rode off without saying a word. He still had not forgotten the cruelty which Paul had shown to his prisoner. Every night, when he closed his eyes, Fulk could see the events of the past few weeks flitting across his vision. The more he thought about it, the more suspicious he became. Ibelin was nothing like a servant of the Devil. He was honest, and brave. Those were qualities given by God. If Ibelin was innocent, it could only mean that either the Church was wrong, or mortal men had corrupted the religion, using it for their own gains. There were many heretics all over the world, and yet, why was Ambrosius so interested in this particular one? While Balian was a baron, he was a minor one and surely he could not make as much impact on the Church as, say, the Counts of Toulouse, who were suspected of being part of the Cathar heresy.

Fulk had no answers. When he had taken his vows, he had only wanted to serve God. Now he was embroiled in this dark game and unable to free himself. He dug his spurs in to his horse's muddied flanks, urging the animal forwards towards the little town. The guards at the gate made no move to stop him. Although he was filthy and covered in mud, it was still obvious that he served Rome. No one dared to stop the Pope's emissaries.

The winding cobbled streets of the town were lined with swollen bodies covered in dark blotches. Wails could be heard coming from almost every house as he rode through the streets to find the church. He had learned that the name of the town was Viechtig, and while the population was rather small, there was a relatively large Jewish population living there. The church was a round stone building with very few windows, and even these did not have glass. The doors were closed, as if it was a fortress and not a house of God which welcomed everyone who wanted to come here to speak to Him.

The knight dismounted and knocked on the door. "Open in the name of Rome!" he called. He heard the sound of wood scraping against wood, and then the door opened, just little. A wizened little priest with grey hair and a long wrinkled face peeked around the door.

"You are an emissary from Rome?" asked the priest.

"Yes," said the man. "You are the town's priest?" The thin man nodded. "What is wrong with this place?" continued Fulk. "Why do you barricade yourself inside your church? If I am not mistaken, today is Sunday. You should be celebrating mass with your congregation."

"Alas, alas," said the priest, opening the door and pulling Fulk into the church before shutting it again. "You do not understand, milord, but this town has been struck down by a terrible pestilence sent by God."

"Yes, I did pass many sick on my way here. What happened?"

"I do not know. Over these past few months, this town has been laden with many misfortunes. The harvest was poor this year, and the local lords had not seen fit to send us charity. Many children died for want of food. And now, this disease strikes. At first, the gums grow over the teeth. That in itself is not serious, for we just shave the excesses away. Then dark spots develop on the sick men's skin, and they begin to lose their teeth. One by one, they fall away like rotten fruit from a tree. Their bodies become swollen and weak. Their waste is liquid and old wounds open on their bodies. By then, it is not long until Death claims them."

Fulk shuddered. This was a terrible plague indeed. "Have you not tried to cure them?" he asked. "You are their priest, after all."

"I have tried prayers and every cure known to mankind. There is nothing we can do except pray that the disease does not strike us down. Only the Jews have not been affected. I suspect they are using their dark magic to call this curse down upon us for forcing denying them the right to practise usury."

That sounded like the usual practise of ignorant clergy. When anything went wrong, it was always convenient to blame the Jews. After all, despite all the limitations to their rights, they were still better off than others. Their businesses flourished, and they multiplied, as God had promised their ancestors in Egypt all those centuries ago.

"I shall bring the papal legate into this town," said Fulk. He would place his trust in Ambrosius one last time. "He will know what to do, if anything can be done." The knight quickly rode back to where Ambrosius and the rest of the company were waiting. Ibelin was completely forgotten for the moment; the people of Viechtig needed help.

* * *

Jack was exhausted, although he would never admit it, especially when no one else had complained. The last thing he needed was for Barbossa to sneer at him. He wrapped his cloak, made from Francesco's gift, around his shoulders. The bloody winter was getting even colder, and he now longed for the warmth of the Caribbean, something which he had more or less taken for granted.

He lifted his spyglass to his eye. The dark forests were giving way to open fields, and the pirate hoped they would be able to find a town where there were warm inns, good hot food, sweet rich drink, and salty wenches. Then he decided to forget the salty wenches. Anna-Maria was here, and if he was not careful, she might do something rather drastic. The Haitian woman was always rather extreme.

There. "Land ahoy!" cried Jack, momentarily forgetting that he was already surrounded by land.

"That's wonderful, Jack," said Will flatly. "Tell me something new."

"No no, whelp! Not just any land! The promised land!"

"You found the artefact?" Will looked incredulous. Surely it could not be that easy.

"No! I found port...I mean, a town!"

Will stood up abruptly and pulled out his own spyglass. So Jack was not lying to him, for a change. There really was a town and even though it was small, spending the night there would be better than sleeping under the stars yet again. He turned to Balian and Legolas. They were the ones who were leading this unexpected venture. Besides, Balian knew the most about this place.

"I think it will be a good idea to spend the night underneath a roof," said Balian with a glad smile. His hair had started growing back, and the short dark locks now stuck out in every direction, giving him a decidedly roguish look. The man leaned forward to pat his horse's neck. "And Walnut wouldn't mind a good meal of oats." The horse snorted, as if in agreement.

"Then it's settled," said Legolas. "We'll go to that town, whatever it's called."

It seemed to take forever. Fatigue weighed down on them and made them drag their feet, but by noon, they were at the town's wooden gates. Its name, they learned, was Viechtig.

* * *

**A/N: **And I think I will leave it at that until next week. ;) I hope you enjoyed this chapter.

Giovanni Francesco di Bernardone is a real person, although I tweaked his dates a bit. He's now known as St. Francis of Assisi. Thanks to **L. Byron **for suggesting it. :)

The disease running rampant in Viechtig is a real disease. However, don't worry. Although it sounds frightening, it is not caused by some deadly virus or bacteria. People rarely get it nowadays. It is caused by vitamin C deficiency, and we know it as Scurvy.


	13. A New Ally

**Chance Encounter: Legacy of the Third Age**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything that you recognize. I'm just borrowing them without permission but with every intention of returning them, savvy?

**Chapter 12: A New Ally**

Ambrosius rode through the gates of Viechtig, expecting to confront death. Everywhere he looked, he saw the suffering of these poor fools. "What happened here?" he demanded of Fulk. "What is this plague?"

"I do not know, Your Eminence," said the Norman, bowing his head. "The priest wasn't making much sense."

"What did the priest say?"

"He blamed the Jews, as all ignorant men tend to do."

"Not so ignorant, perhaps," said Paul coldly. Fulk had changed. Ever since they had met Ibelin, the Norman had gone from being a complacent man to one who questioned the wisdom of his betters. The Inquisitor put it down to the heretic's influence. Balian of Ibelin had had no respect for the social hierarchy. "The Jews were the ones who hung our Saviour on a cross, or do you not remember? This place is infested with them; no wonder it was struck down by disease."

"Then what do you suggest we do, Inquisitor?" asked the cardinal. He was not interested in Viechtig. There were other more pressing matters to worry about.

"Purge the Jews, and we purge the disease," said Paul, unsheathing his sword.

"So be it," said Ambrosius.

* * *

As they drew closer to the town, Legolas could hear mournful wailing coming from behind those flimsy wooden palisades, and he could smell death on the air. Something terrible had happened here. The guards at the gates eyed them warily, but they let them pass through without offering any obstruction. Ruined and bloated bodies greeted them as soon as they entered the town of Viechtig.

Instinctively, Balian tightened his hold on Barisian. The child buried his face in his father's shirt. "Don't look, _mon petit_," whispered the man. His son had seen enough death and violence for a lifetime.

"Blimey," whispered Jack. "Have these people never heard of limes? They've all got Scurvy, and they've got it bad."

"They all be ignorant fools," Barbossa whispered back. "Remember, they be the ones who thought us lepers jus' because we were wearin' bandages."

They walked through the narrow cobbled streets, heading for the only part in town which did not seem to be affected by this disease. "Now, I always knew that them Jews were smart," said Jack. "See? Not one bloated body to be seen in their quarter. They've been eating their limes."

"They're probably the only ones who can afford to eat limes," said Will. "From what I've seen, this region is suffering from a bad harvest. Jews tend to be merchants; they get more revenue than the peasants and the craftsmen."

Once again, Agnes was mystified. What on earth did limes have to do with plagues? She didn't have time to ponder this question for long, for a scream rent the air, followed by shouts; angry shouts. She stiffened. Christ, could the Inquisitors be here? What ill-fortune was this?

The language which the Jews of Viechtig spoke was very different from that of those in Ibelin, but Balian managed to pick up a few words, namely 'kill' and 'run'. More shouts followed, this time in Latin, and he recognized one voice in particular. "It's Paul," he said. "The Inquisitors are here!"

"Damnation!" said Jack. "Come on! We run, right?"

"No!" came the chorus of replies. Those who disagreed had chosen to remain silent.

"We're not leaving these people here to be killed!" declared Balian.

"If anyone's going to do any running, it will be those Romans!" said Achilles. "I will not taint my name with the title of coward!"

"There are children here!" said Elizabeth. "I'm not letting anyone hurt children!"

"Jack Sparra, if yer so scared then you can run, but I'm stayin' ta fight!" said Anna-Maria.

"If you ain't runnin' then I can't run either," muttered the pirate, eying Anna-Maria carefully. She seemed to be rather annoyed, and he doubted that her irritation was directed at the Inquisitors. "What about the knightling an' the other ladies? They ain't fightin', are they?"

"I want to stay with Papa!" said Barisian.

"You're not staying, Bari," said Balian as he slid down from the saddle.

"But I wanna—"

"It's your duty to look after Lady Agnes and Heloise, do you understand?" said Balian. That was the only way to convince Barisian that he had to be elsewhere. "You have to protect them, do you understand?"

"Aye aye, sir!" said Barisian.

"No, not 'aye'," said Balian. "In France, we—"

"—say 'yes'," Barisian finished for him. "I know, Papa, but I'm a pirate now!"

"Thatta boy," drawled Barbossa. Balian glared at him, but it was completely ineffective, for Barbossa and Barisian kept grinning.

"Remember, knightling," said Jack. "Take all you can..."

"Give nothing back!" Barisian punched the air as he said it, and his father felt the urge to bury his face in his hands. Instead, he turned to Agnes, and then to Heloise. They had stayed silent throughout the entire exchange. The former's eyes were wide with fear and confusion, and he could understand why. A world without religious prejudice was an entirely new concept for her.

"Ride out of the town and go North, Agnes," he said. "If we get out of here, we will come here to find you."

"This is a foolish move," said Agnes. "Those Inquisitors want your head, and you're running straight to them!"

"Foolish although it may be, but I will never forgive myself if I leave these people to die."

"You would throw down your life for Jews? They killed Christ!"

"Jews, Muslims, Christians, Pagans; I would throw down my life for the helpless, no matter what religious affiliations they have," he said. Those brown eyes had grown cold and hard. This was the knight, not the simple charming man who had ridden to Cormier. "Don't try to change my mind, Agnes. You can't."

The girl opened her mouth to say more, but she could not find the right words. Christ, how could he be so stubborn? She took a deep breath. "And your son?" she said. "Would you abandon him?"

"Enough!" said Legolas sharply, seeing the pain in his friend's eyes. "Balian would never abandon Barisian, and he will not abandon these people either. Do not force him to choose, Lady Agnes, or you will regret it." With that, the elf slapped Walnut on the rump. "_Noro lim_!" he cried. The horse sprang forwards. His hooves clattered on the cobbled streets as he raced through them to get to the gates.

Gimli glanced at Balian. The man's expression was full of anxiety for his son. "The wee lad will be fine," he said. "He knows how to look after himself. You taught him well; we all taught him well. Come on; there are more little mites to save." The dwarf gripped his axe. "This is another war, and we're going to fight until the very end." With that, he ran in the direction of the screams, shouting, "Baruk Khazad!" The others hurried after him.

"Gimli!" called Legolas. "One person charges are brave, but not the most intelligent things when you are already outnumbered!"

* * *

Paul descended upon the house of the infidels with fervour. This was why he had elected this lonely life as an Inquisitor. It was his duty to rid this world of enemies of Christ and His Church. Perhaps then, the world would have a lot less grief. The Jewess pushed her younger siblings behind her. Her lips moved in silent prayer as she watched the Inquisitor advancing on them. His blade was already stained with the blood of her parents. Paul lifted his sword, and then someone knocked him out of the way.

"Are you mad?!" demanded Fulk, gripping the other Inquisitor's sword arm so that he could not use it. "They are children! How can they have called down this pestilence?"

"They are infidels, Fulk!" said Paul. "That is enough to condemn them to Hell!" The two men wrestled for control of the sword. Fulk was a smaller man, but his determination to save those children gave him strength.

"Run!" he shouted to them, hoping they knew enough Latin to understand that. In fact, the children did not need him to tell them what to do, for they were already rushing past the two fighting men and out of the house.

* * *

Achilles caught his opponent's blade with the guard of his sword, and with a circular move, disarmed his opponent. The man took a quick step backwards, but it was too late for him, for the Greek had already struck again, striking him in the neck and bringing him down. Hot coppery blood sprayed onto Achilles' face from the severed artery. He ignored the feeling and picked up the dead man's sword, throwing it to Balian.

"It's not the sword of Ibelin," said the Greek as Balian caught the weapon by the hilt. "Philippe still has that."

"It's a sword," said Balian, immediately putting the weapon to good use as he blocked a blow which would have amputated his leg. "That's good enough for me." His left arm was still sore and a little weak, but under his friends' meticulous care, he was well on his way to being whole, although he felt that after this battle, he might be in need of a healer's ministrations again. The impact of the blow made the bones in his arm vibrate, and he stumbled backwards, but quickly regained his balance before sidestepping his opponent's advance. The man was determined to kill the heretical former baron, and he lunged again with a frustrated growl, aiming for the vitals. However, he immediately dropped his sword and screamed as a screeching furry projectile hit him and proceeded to tear off his face. "Thank you, Jack!" called Balian.

Paris stayed close to Gimli and Legolas. There were too many innocents running about to use arrows, and he was still hopeless with a sword. In fact, Briseis seemed to be using one with more skill. Of course, it helped that she was fighting back to back with Elizabeth and Anna-Maria, and the latter two were not averse to using their pistols when their opponents got the upper hand.

Will and Jack's movements were completely synchronized as they wove their deadly dance. They weaved around the Inquisitors, confusing them enough so that they faltered, and then cutting them down while they were trying to regain their sense of orientation. And then, Jack's slender sword broke.

"Bugger!" he shouted, flinging the useless hilt away and rolling to avoid being beheaded. Will saw that his friend was —once again— in trouble, for the Inquisitors seemed to think that the disarmed pirate was easy prey, and they were right. The younger pirate kicked his opponent's feet out from beneath him, making the armoured Inquisitor lose his balance and fall to the ground. Before the man could recover, his throat had been slashed open. Will had no time to be disgusted as blood spurted out from severed arteries onto him. He snatched up the dead man's sword.

"Jack!" he shouted. "Sword!" With that, he tossed the sword high into the air, hoping that the wily pirate would be able to outmanoeuvre his enemies and catch the weapon. Jack elbowed a man in the stomach to get him out of the way before leaping, neatly catching the sword by the hilt.

"Bloody hell," he said, swinging the sword about. "This thing's bloody heavy!"

Flames danced on top of thatched roofs, leaping from house to house and driving out the inhabitants onto the streets, where they were either lost in the chaos or felled by the vengeful swords of those who claimed to be fighting for God. Children screamed for their parents. Confusion and death rampaged through the Jewish quarter of Viechtig. "This is madness!" cried Will.

"That's why we're fighting!" said Jack, waving his salvaged long sword about madly, hoping that he could deter any potential opponents. He wasn't particularly good at using these big cumbersome lengths of metal which Balian considered to be swords, but his own light weapon was not going to do much damage to armoured knights. "Not that we're goin' ta win it!"

"You're the brilliant Captain Jack Sparrow!" shouted Will. "Think of something!"

"It's a bit hard to use yer head when someone's trying to remove it!" hollered the pirate as he ducked a wide swipe. He gave up and pulled out his pistol. "Let's put some lead in yer skull!" he said, aiming the gun at the man who was trying to cut off his head. He pulled the trigger. The gun clicked, but nothing happened.

"Damn it all to Hell!" said Jack. "I ain't got no bloody shots!"

"Well, you don't exactly have to tell the world!" Will shouted back. The Inquisitors surrounding them, upon hearing that no one would be getting lead balls in their head, exchanged glances and then advanced on the two pirates.

"This is just like the last time we were stuck, ain't it, Whelp?" said Jack. He lifted his sword to block a downward blow. Unfortunately for the pirate, he still wasn't used to the brute force which people of this world seemed to like to use, and he stumbled back into Will, causing the younger man to lose his balance.

Then Fortune seemed to notice that her favourite pirate was in a bit of trouble, for they had caught the attention of Paris, who had climbed into a tree to avoid close combat with anyone. The Trojan prince put an arrow to his bow and fired, striking one of the Inquisitors in the hand. "That's one," he muttered to himself. He aimed again, this time at the weak spot between the shoulder and the neck. The arrow embedded itself in flesh. As the man fell, the ranks surrounding Will and Jack opened, and the two were able to make their escape.

Paris was in the middle of congratulating himself when he realized that someone was running towards his tree with a torch in his hand. He panicked, and no matter how hard he tried, he could not aim properly. His arrows went wide and disappeared into the melee. Things would have gone rather badly for Paris if Achilles had not noticed his dilemma.

"Balian!" he called. "This way!" He shoved an Inquisitor aside, not even bothering to use his sword. He might not like Paris too much, but he was Briseis' cousin, and Briseis would not be happy if he left Paris to fend for himself. The two of them made a formidable, if odd, pair. Achilles seemed to be dancing as he manoeuvred his way between the men, using his sword in increasingly creative ways. Balian was a bit plainer in his techniques, preferring simply to cut men down without any flourishes.

"We're not getting anything done here!" the knight shouted as they made their way to Paris' tree before the Inquisitor could burn it. With three swift successive strokes, Achilles cut down the man, and Paris could climb down in safety. "The whole point of fighting is to save the Jews! They're not getting saved!"

"What do you suggest we do then?" demanded Achilles. "If you haven't noticed, then I'll tell you now that we are completely outnumbered!"

"You're the man who took the beach of Troy with fifty men, Achilles!"

"Yes, well, the Trojans were a bunch of hapless imbeciles!" replied the Greek.

"Is it your life's purpose to insult me?" said Paris testily, putting another arrow to his bow. In fact, he was rather annoyed that he had been saved by Achilles yet again.

"Stop arguing!" said Balian. By then, they had regrouped with the others. The motley gang of pirates, lords and princes formed a tight circle, all facing outwards, while the Inquisitors surrounded them. Even though they were still outnumbered, the Inquisitor's ranks had been sorely depleted.

"Now can we run?" said Jack. "If we do, then we get two birds with one stone; these nasty men will leave the Jews alone because they'll be chasing us, or rather, our dirty knight, and then we can all escape because they will never be able to catch us."

"Why is that?" asked Briseis.

"Because you've got Captain Jack Sparrow with you, savvy?"

* * *

Fulk climbed to his feet. Paul had been too strong for him, just as he had always been. However, this time, the Norman was not about to give up. He rushed out into the streets to try and stop the madness and the massacre. Surely God did not want them to kill innocent people. It never said in the Bible that it was proper to hurt little children. The screams and the roar of the fire drowned out any other coherent thoughts. He stumbled out into the streets. The air was clogged with acrid smoke, and through the haze, he could see the man who had been the entire cause of this wild ride through Italy and Southern Germany.

"Ibelin!" he shouted. "Balian of Ibelin!" Fulk ran towards the man, who was fighting back to back with the oddest group of people the Norman had ever seen. Hadn't he been on the verge of death the last time Fulk had seen him? The Norman could not help but be impressed by the man's resilience and stubborn courage. Fulk's shouts were lost in the screams of the terrified fleeing crowds, but Balian had seen him.

The Norman charged into the melee, knocking aside men who had once been his comrades. "Ibelin! Thank the Lord you're still alive!" he gasped when he reached the motley group of fighters.

"Fulk, there's no time to talk," said Balian. He had seen the Norman fighting his fellow Inquisitors. Was it possible that he had had a change of heart? "We're leaving, right now."

"Then I'm leaving with you," said the Norman. "I've had enough of fighting for a lie."

"I'll congratulate you later," said Balian. As he spoke, he heard a loud bang which could only be a gunshot. Trust Elizabeth to resort to firearms in desperate situations. The ranks for Inquisitors parted, just for a moment, but it was enough for the group of heretics to charge through.

Gimli, despite his short stature, was at the very front of the charge, followed closely by Legolas. Men scattered at the sight of the dwarven warrior brandishing his great axe. It was as if the old pagan myths had come to life. The Northern gates of Viechtig were in sight.

"Have you got horses?" panted Fulk. In his hurry, he had completely forgotten about his own steed.

"We've got one horse," gasped Paris. His legs felt as if they were about to fall off. He had walked for an entire day. When he had entered Viechtig, he had not expected to have to run for his life. His lungs burned for lack of air. He seemed to breathe it out faster than he was breathing it in. He stumbled and fell onto his knees.

"Come on, Paris!" said Will, dragging the prince back to his feet. "Can't stop now!"

"Breathing's the key!" Gimli shouted back. "Trust me, lad; I know this!"

* * *

The cardinal surveyed the smouldering ruins of what was once the town of Viechtig. He clutched his reins so tightly that his knuckles were white. He was shaking from fury. How? The answer had been within his grasp. He had been so close to capturing Balian and his accomplices, but somehow they had managed to escape. "Why did you not give chase?" he demanded of Paul.

The Inquisitor scowled at the cardinal. "They were running through winding streets and we were in armour. They were lost to us within moments," he said. "At any rate, what about these good Christian people?"

Ambrosius gave a short laugh. "You don't really care that much about them, do you, Paul?" he said. "You just burned down their town."

"I was purging it of pestilence," growled the Inquisitor. If Ambrosius had not been the papal legate, he would have had to pay dearly for that. Paul wiped the soot and blood from his face with an equally dirty hand. Humiliation did not sit well to him, and he was of the opinion that it all stemmed from one man, or rather, one group of men and some rather odd beings. "Brothers in Christ!" he called, mounting his horse. "We ride north! Let it not be said that traitors to Christendom can escape the wrath of God and of Rome!" He turned to face the cardinal. "And send word to Rome. Fulk of Salerno has betrayed us. His papal seal is void."

"Why don't you send one of your men back to Rome instead?" said Ambrosius. "I am the papal legate, and it is my duty to ride with you. The heretic is the Pope's prisoner, after all."

* * *

Agnes stared into the distance. Plumes of smoke were rising from Viechtig. Waiting for news was worse than being in the actual struggle, she decided. The sun began to set. Still, there was no sign of Balian and his motley group of friends. 'God, please protect them,' she prayed. She knew she had hurt him when she had accused him of abandoning his son, and she wanted to have the chance to apologize for her callous words.

There. A group of people was running out of Viechtig. "It's Papa!" cried Barisian from Walnut's back, making the horse snort in surprise. Somehow, the boy had managed to 'borrow' Jack's spyglass without the pirate noticing. Barbossa had taught him well indeed.

"Is he all right?" asked Agnes.

"Don't know," said Barisian. "But he's really dirty. He needs to take a bath."

"I hope you won't let your father hear that."

"Why not?"

Agnes gaped at the child. In all her life, she had never met a little boy who was so...talkative and insolent, for lack of better words. "Because he's your father, and you should show him respect," she said to him sternly. Perhaps Barisian simply needed a mother to teach him what was acceptable and what was not. While Elizabeth, Briseis and Anna-Maria all loved the boy, they were not the best role models, and Balian was just too kindly to be a proper strict father.

"But I don't have any respect to show him," said Barisian, lowering the spyglass. The little boy regarded her with solemn eyes. "Do you think I should go find some now?"

"It would be a good idea," said Agnes slowly. How could Balian's son not know the meaning of respect? He was six years old! Almost old enough to be fostered out!

"All right then!" said Barisian, sliding off the warhorse's back so quickly that for a moment, Agnes thought he was going to break his neck. However, the child landed on his feet with no difficulty. "Lady Agnes? What does respect look like?"

"Perhaps you should wait until your father gets back," said Agnes, grimacing. "He can show you."

Balian collapsed to the ground, sucking in gulps of air into his lungs. There was no strength left in his legs. They seemed to have escaped the Inquisitors for the moment, and that was good enough for him.

"I...hate...runnin'..." gasped Jack.

"I thought...you loved...it..." said Paris. "You...do it...all the time..."

"If you're so breathless then you shouldn't be talking," said Agnes.

"Good point..." panted Achilles. He let his body crumple onto the ground, and he just lay there, regaining his breath and staring at the darkening sky.

"Papa!" cried Barisian, running to his father.

"I'm fine, _mon petit_," said Balian breathlessly. His chest heaved. "I'm just...tired..."

"You should take a bath," murmured Barisian, throwing his arms about Balian's neck and burying his face in his father's shirt. "If I was dirty like this, Marguerite would tell me I'm a naughty boy."

Balian hugged his son. "Then we can both be naughty boys together," he said. He got up and searched for the water skin and then uncorked it and poured water onto his face to wash away the soot and blood. The water was warm from having rested against his horse's flank, but it felt good on his face. At least there wasn't dirt caking his skin anymore.

"Don't use too much of it," said Briseis, snatching the water skin from him. She put it to her lips and took a long drink. "There was a time when I could have cool water which tasted of lemon whenever I wanted it."

"Ye can still have water whenever ye want it, lass," said drawled Barbossa. "It just be warm and leather flavoured."

"That's the problem," said Briseis, handing the water skin to Elizabeth who gulped down a few mouthfuls, leather-flavoured or not.

"Papa," said Barisian, looking up at his father as Balian wiped his face dry with his sleeve. "Where do you find respect?" The man looked at his son with surprise. What sort of question was that?

"Why do you ask that?" he said.

"Because Lady Agnes said I should show you some, but I don't have any, so I have to find some, savvy?"

Fulk stood a little apart from the others, feeling rather awkward now that the fight was over. He wasn't one of them. The Inquisitor smiled a little as he watched Balian's son welcome him. That was a bond that the Norman had never had. His father had died in the Holy Land when he had been a mere boy of two, and his mother had followed him soon afterwards. Fulk had been sent to join his uncle's household, and even though he had neither lacked food nor shelter, there had been something missing. His uncle had been a hard man with very little sympathy for anybody. The sort of affection which Balian was showing to the little boy was entirely alien to the Norman knight.

"Hey, you!" called the small brown woman. "You want a drink?" She held out a leather water skin to him. "There ain't much in it, but it should be enough."

"Thank you, good dame," said Fulk, accepting the water skin. He had never seen anyone who looked or acted quite like her before. It was almost as if she was a man trapped in a woman's body.

"I ain't no dame," said the woman with a snort. "The name's Anna-Maria."

"I'm Fulk of Salerno," he said.

"You're one o' those men who caught our friend there?" she asked. Fulk could sense her hostility clearly.

"Anna-Maria, don't tear the man to pieces," said Balian, putting himself between Anna-Maria and the wary Norman. "He's one of the few who showed me kindness."

"I'm ashamed to say that I didn't do enough to help," said Fulk, "but you must understand how uncertain I was. I thought Balian really was an enemy of God, until that old monk insisted he was God's servant."

Balian bowed his head at the mention of those monks who had died because of him. He would forever hear their screams and smell their blood in his dreams. "Abelard was good to me," he said softly.

"But his death was not your fault," said Fulk. "Paul has been consumed by madness, and I do not think that the papal legate is as righteous as he is supposed to be."

"He bloody well isn't!" spat Balian. Fury was evident in his voice, and when he looked up, they were all shocked by the hatred they could see in his face.

"You cursed like me," said Jack.

"Hush," said Elizabeth, eying Balian warily. That man did not lose his temper often, but when he did, he was dangerous.

"Do you know something that I should know?" said Fulk.

Bit by bit, Balian, with the help of his friends, related the story of the Irminsul to the former Inquisitor, leaving out nothing. Fulk's head was soon reeling with tales of immortal beings, shining jewels, dark lords, fiery mountains and undead monkeys, whatever monkeys were.

"I didn't understand most of it," said Fulk when the tale had been finished, "but I think I can see the importance of this pagan artefact, and I will do my best to help you to locate it."

"What can you do?" scoffed Jack.

"I've got a papal seal," said Fulk, pulling out a piece of velum with a disc of red wax on it. "It will allow you to pass through the Holy Roman Empire without obstruction unless this seal becomes void."

* * *

**A/N: **Lots of dialogue here. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it.


	14. Charlemagne's City

**Chance Encounter: Legacy of the Third Age**

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything that you recognize. I'm just borrowing them without permission but with every intention of returning them, savvy?

**Chapter 13: Charlemagne's City**

Snow fell from the pale grey sky, creating a swirling veil of white. Balian blinked to get rid of the snowflakes from his eyelashes. "It's no use!" he called out to Legolas, who was at the front of the column. "We need to find civilization or we'll freeze before tomorrow dawns!"

"I think I'm freezing right now!" said Paris through chattering teeth. Snow had melted on his curls, but the cold meant that it froze again almost immediately, so his hair was now a solid icy mass.

"Ye be still speakin', Prince Paris," said Barbossa. "Ye be not frozen enough."

"I second Balian's suggestion!" said Will. "We can't even see where we're going. For all we know, we could have passed the Irminsul!"

The elf glanced up at the sky. The storm showed no signs of abating. If anything, those dark clouds looming on the horizon signified that the storm was about to get much worse. He turned to his companions. All of them were shivering, and even Gimli looked exhausted. "All right," he said. "We'll look for a village, but if it has a sacred building, we're not going there."

"Every village has a church, Legolas!" said Balian. He was about to add something else, but a sneeze interrupted him.

"Papa, you should cover your mouth when you sneeze," Barisian said through chattering teeth.

"Then I shall revise my conditions," said the elven prince. Out of the entire rabble of nobles and pirates, he was the only one who was not shivering. "If there is a cathedral, I am running in the other direction."

"What exactly do you have against cathedrals, Master Legolas?" asked Fulk.

"Apart from the fact that they seem to attract Inquisitors?" said Legolas. "Nothing at all."

"He's got a point, that pointy-ear," said Gimli. "Now, my elvish friend, why don't you put your keen eyesight to good use and look for a village? I would really love to sleep under a roof tonight. I've seen all I want of snowstorms during the Quest."

"My dear dwarf," said Legolas. "I would love to look for a welcoming little village, but as you can see, this snow is impeding my vision."

"I thought you said that your elven senses far surpassed those of us mere mortals!" said the dwarf. "You lied!"

"My senses do surpass those of mortals, but that does not mean that I can see through snow!"

The light-hearted bantering continued. Legolas and Gimli were not doing only for their own amusement, but also to take their companions' minds off their predicament. They were cold and hungry, and they had been wandering in the wild for many days. Valar knew that they needed something to cheer them up.

"I still don't understand this," Agnes muttered to Balian. "If this Irminsul was so important, why would anyone hide it in this godforsaken and miserable place? Surely it would be better to keep it safe in the vault of a cathedral or a monastery."

"I think this climate is one of the main reasons why the Irminsul was hidden here in the first place," replied Balian. "No one with any sense would risk their lives to come here and find it. Don't forget, the Irminsul was created a long time ago. This was probably not part of any empire in the old days."

"You're right," said Fulk. "It wasn't. This place belonged to the Saxons, and they were simply a number of barbaric tribes until Charles the Magnificent came here and brought civilization with him."

"I can dispute that," muttered Paris. "But I'll wait until I'm warm enough to think."

* * *

_**Germany, 772 A.D.**_

_The old man clutched the metal chest close to his body. In his other hand was his gnarled wooden staff. The fires of war lit up the night sky, making it an unnatural red. Red like the blood which now stained these lands. Asatarë made his way around the trees; he had watched these trees grow from seeds into this magnificent forest. In the space of one night, this would probably be destroyed by those men who came from the west, brandishing iron and leaving death in their wake. _

_He left the sounds and stench of war behind. The jewel must not be discovered. The last thing those 'Franks' would expect a 'pagan' to do was head deep into Frankish territory, into the lands of Neustria and Austrasia. That was exactly what Asatarë planned to do. Even though he had lived in seclusion for most of his time in this world, he had had some interaction with the tribes which lived nearby. Traders spoke of a little isle in the west; a land covered in mist. The Maia thought that the jewel would be safe there. This man, Charles, was an ambitious zealot, but even he would be deterred by an ocean. _

_The Maia snatched back his pointed hat from a branch. The forest did not seem to want him to leave, but what choice did he have. Dark, cold Germania had become yet another conquest of these 'Christians'. Although Asatarë had never liked Germania, he had, nonetheless, respected its mystery and hard beauty. The Maia was sorry to see it washed away by this new faith. _

_He shook his head. He could not do anything; Manwë had said that he was not to alter anything in this world, and he was going to abide by the Vala's commands. With one last glance at where the pillar which had once housed the jewel once stood, Asatarë turned towards the west. He had a journey to make, and the sooner he reached the coast, the better._

* * *

Slanted thatched roofs came into view. Gimli suppressed the urge to heave a sigh of relief. If he did show his gladness, the elf would never let him hear the end of it. Already, Legolas was looking at him with amusement. "And I thought the dwarves were hardy folk," said the elf.

"Just as I thought elves were wise, once," said Gimli. "Then I met an elvish princeling who almost got himself killed by a pretty concubine of a Haradrim king. It was fortunate that I was there."

Legolas glared at him. "You mention that one more time..." he began.

"This doesn't look like any village I've seen," said Balian, distracting both the elf and the dwarf.

"It doesn't?" said Paris.

"Not at all," said Fulk. "I've never seen buildings such as these." He pointed to the raised foundations, made of large whole logs.

"The walls are odd as well," added Balian. "They're made of logs as well. Most walls of houses in villages are made of mud. And the shape of the houses. Most houses are round; these are long and rectangular."

"Is there anything wrong with rectangular houses?" asked Achilles.

"In this world, yes," said Balian. "I don't think this is a Christian village."

"That makes it perfect," said Legolas. "No one will betray us to the Inquisitors." He strode towards the village, and the others had no choice but to follow him, not that they were reluctant. Already, Balian was dreaming about hot stew and dry clothes. He couldn't remember what it felt like to sleep on a proper mattress stuffed with fresh fragrant straw.

The village itself was surrounded by a flimsy wooden fence which was only good for marking the borders of the village. There were four of those long rectangular buildings, and Legolas roughly estimated that each of them could house twenty people.

They were stopped at the gates by two men with long tangled hair and so many blue tattoos that it was hard to tell what their real skin colour was. They said something to the elf in their own harsh tongue. Legolas glanced back at his companions; they all wore blank facial expressions.

"Let me try something," said Fulk. He spoke slowly in Latin to the men, and made many gestures. The two guards watched the former Inquisitor with narrowed eyes. Then they conversed rapidly with each other before one of them ran into the village. The other indicated for them to wait there. A few moments later, the first guard returned. Behind him was a man dressed in the finest furs. He, too, had many tattoos on his face, but these had much finer details than those of the guards. Fulk deemed that he was man of some importance.

"You are Christians?" he said in Latin.

"Some of us," said Fulk. "We come as friends."

"The Christians have tried to eradicate us for many centuries," said the man, but he smiled. "However, I can see that you do not mean any harm, for you have come with your women and children. What brings you out here in this storm? Any man with sense would stay inside his house with his woman beside his hearth."

"I would," interrupted Jack, "but I have no hearth to sit beside."

The man laughed. "You are welcome to sit beside my hearth," he said. "It is not courteous to keep guests out in the cold. Come."

They followed the man to one of the long buildings. He pushed aside a heavy piece of animal skin which acted as a door and ushered them in. The fire from the stone hearth cast a warm golden glow over everything inside. The wooden floor was covered with thick furs to preserve the warmth. "Make yourselves comfortable," he said. "I shall inform my wife that we have visitors."

"Thank you for your generosity, good sir," said Balian in halting Latin, hoping that he had not said anything inappropriate.

"You are welcome," said the man. "My name is Gerard, stranger from distant lands. That would be the French form, I believe, and more suited to your tongue. Don't be so surprised. I am a trader. It is good for trade if I have a name which the Franks can pronounce." With that, he walked away and ventured further into the house, no doubt to find his wife.

* * *

Jack burped in contentment. The stew had been one of the tastiest things he had ever eaten, and that was saying quite a lot. Captain Jack Sparrow had sailed the seven seas. He had tasted every culinary treasure available, including the famed abalone and shark fin soup of China. Not that those dishes had tasted particularly good, but to have eaten the food of an emperor was something to be proud of.

The pirate stretched out his legs before him and lay back on the furs with his hands behind his head, staring up at the rafters of the longhouse. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Balian conversing in slow awkward Latin with their host. The later clearly needed lessons in the language. Jack was not very keen on grammar, but some of Balian's grammatical mistakes made him just want to snort. At least he hadn't called himself a pregnant dog, yet. Just as well Agnes and Fulk were there to help.

Their host was listening intently to their bizarre story. Beside him was an old woman with a wizened face and four yellowed teeth left in her mouth. Gerard had introduced her as his mother. Even though she neither spoke nor understood a single word of Latin, nonetheless, she sat beside her son, listening just as intently to Balian's halting speech. Jack wondered what was so fascinating about the cadences of Balian's voice. To the pirate, the knight just sounded like any other man with bad Latin and a strange accent.

There were sounds of laughter coming from another corner of the warm comfortable room. Barisian, despite his tiredness, had found enough energy to play. Gerard had many children, and some of them were very close in age to Balian's young son. It did not matter that they shared no common language; the children seemed to understand each other perfectly. If only the adults could communicate just as well. Some of the older girls, and women, seemed to have set their sights on Legolas and Paris. Elizabeth was hanging onto Will and glaring at any other woman who wanted to approach her husband. Briseis and Achilles were doing more or less the same thing, except the latter couple seemed to be a lot more interested in each other.

Gimli's face was red with laughter, and too much mead. The dwarf was barely managing to suppress mirthful snorts as he watched his friends trying to fend off the attentions of some very interested young women. They simply refused to be deterred. 'No,' he thought, when Legolas gave him a pleading look. 'I am not rescuing him from that. It is much too risky. They might hurt me for getting in between them and that pretty elvish princeling.' The dwarf downed another mouthful of rich sweet mead. They had a good brew here.

"We have come here to seek out the Irminsul," Balian was explaining to Gerard.

"The Irminsul?" said the other man. "Are you saying that it still exists?"

"I hope so," said Balian. "I would hate to have been tortured for something which doesn't even exist."

"I think you would hate to be tortured for anything," said Fulk.

"That is true," said Balian. "We believe that the Irminsul is not just a pagan artefact; it's also an artefact of great power, and it would be best if Ambrosius de Magio did not get his hands on it."

At the mention of the Irminsul, Gerard's mother began babbling and gesticulating wildly at her son. Gerard spoke soothingly to her to calm her down, but she refused to be placated. She pointed one gnarled finger at Balian, and then proceeded to shout at her son, her voice getting louder and louder until he seemed to have no choice but to comply with her wishes, whatever they were.

"My mother wants me to translate the tale of the Irminsul to you," he said.

"I would be very interested to hear it," said Balian.

"It's just a story for old people, I'm afraid," said Gerard, embarrassed. His mother spoke to him again. "It was many years ago, I'm presuming when Charles the Magnificent conducted his last Saxon campaigns. My grandmother's grandfather's—let's just call him my ancestor— was but a child when the Frankish armies came upon his village. His mother had told him to run and hide, for she knew that the Franks would destroy everything. They were most intent on razing the old religions and grinding them into the dust so that nothing of them remained. This child ran to the safest place he knew; the site of the Tree of Life, or the Irminsul, as we now call it."

At that point, Gerard stopped and turned to his mother to ask her something. She nodded and murmured something else to him. Balian watched them both intently. Was it possible that Fortune was smiling upon him at last? Surely it was not a coincidence that they had come to one of the few villages who still knew the stories of the old religions.

"There, he found a clump of bushes and he hid behind them," continued Gerard. "All the while, he was praying to the gods that his parents would be fine. He saw a curious thing that night, for an old man, with a long beard and a pointed hat, came to the Irminsul. It was said to be a giant stone pillar, built in the shape of a tree with branches at the very top which stretched out to the sides, symbolizing the way the gods embraced the whole world. The old man tapped the Irminsul with his staff and muttered a few words which my ancestor could not understand. The tip of the staff glowed, and then a door opened in the trunk of the Irminsul. The old man reached in and took out something, and then he left."

"What did he take out of the Irminsul?" asked Balian.

"No one knows, but it was small enough for an old man to carry, and my mother insists that it was a chest of sorts. Is that of any significance to you?"

"I think this chest and its contents are what we're looking for," said Balian. He turned to Fulk. "This is it. The Irminsul was here, but someone took it away before Charlemagne could destroy it!" He was filled with so much excitement that he was almost shouting. Everyone turned to look at Balian, for he had inadvertently switched back to his own tongue, and most of the people in the longhouse did not understand him.

"That's great," said Jack dryly. "Now all we have to do is find out where it was taken, grab it, and then scurry back to Middle Earth, eh? That's nice and simple."

"Where could this old man have taken it?" asked Achilles.

"I think this 'old man' is actually a Maia," said Legolas. "Knowing Maia and their habits, the Irminsul could be anywhere by now."

"Did your ancestor know which direction the old man went in?" Fulk asked Gerard.

"No," said their host. "However, the Christians did make records of many happenings. Perhaps the continuation of this story can be found in one of their archives?"

"If there is information to be found, then it can only be found in one place," said Fulk. "Aachen; Charles' most beloved city."

"I be havin' a bad feelin' about this," muttered Barbossa. "Master Gimli, I hope ye be able to make gunpowder very quickly. I be thinkin' that we'll be needin' it."

* * *

Gimli had thought that after the War of the Ring, there would be no more need for miserable fireless nights in the wilderness. Would his friends never cease to find trouble? The group sat close to each other to preserve what little warmth they had. The blustering wind blew the snow into their faces, rendering it impossible to see. "I hate this place," the dwarf heard Achilles say. At least, that was what Gimli thought he heard Achilles say; the wind drowned out almost everything. "It's cold and dark—"

"And there are enemies everywhere," finished Paris. "Somehow, that bothers me more than the disagreeable climate."

"You do realize that we are going to have to deal with more of this unpleasant climate, right?" said Will.

"At least we have heading," said Jack, "Eh, luv?" Anna-Maria shivered and snuggled up closer to him. Normally, she would rather die than be in such a compromising position with Jack Sparrow, but she was much too cold to think properly or to care.

"Is Aachen warm?" ventured Briseis tentatively. She cared not for sacred treasures anymore. She just wanted sun. Achilles had wrapped his arms around her to try and keep her warm, but the biting cold winds blew away any warmth which could be had.

"Definitely not," said Fulk. "It's in the north-west of the Holy Roman Empire; it will get colder as our journey progresses."

"You have a way of cheering me up," said Paris sarcastically as he huddled up against Walnut's flank. The horse was the only member of the company who was not shivering. Over the course of the journey, he had grown a thick coat, and while his companions found very little food in the wild, there was always enough grass and other vegetation for a horse. He snorted, but suffered the prince's presence. Paris was no threat to him.

"You can always hope that the old wizard took the Irminsul to Southern France," said Will. "It's pleasant there, or so I've heard."

"They make good wine," added Elizabeth. "I would kill for a glass of good wine at the moment."

"Wine?" said Jack. "That's always good, although I prefer rum. Rum's the best!"

* * *

Aachen; it certainly was a wonder to look upon. Even from a distance, they could see the spires of its chapel pointing up to the heavens, as if it was showing the way to God. Forests surrounded the city, but within, it was a bustling centre of activity. Scholars from all over Europe came here; there were fewer of them than in Charlemagne's time, now that new universities had been established in places such as Paris and Salerno, but there were enough of them.

Agnes forgot about her exhaustion as she looked around her in wonder. Never had she thought that she would see the jewel of Charlemagne's empire and the seat of his crown. Then again, she had never expected to see Rome either. Perhaps her impulsive move to go to Nièvre had not been so foolish after all. She had never been so free in her life, and even though there was a price on her head, she felt her courage grow. Here, amongst these people, she was not just a woman and a pawn, but someone whose suggestions were heard.

"What do you think?" said a voice behind her. She turned to see Balian, who was grinning at her awe. His hair was now as thick as ever, although it was still considerably shorter than before.

"It's beautiful," she said. "Aachen isn't Rome, but it shouldn't be compared to Rome anyway. It's unique in its own way."

"Indeed it is," said Fulk. He gazed at the chapel. "It's a vestige of the past; a legacy of a world of chivalry and honour. Charles was the greatest of kings. Christendom needs more kings like him."

The others looked at Fulk oddly. The man seemed to be in a dream, and he was definitely not paying much attention to them. "Charles killed...what do you call them...infidels," said Legolas. "I would hardly call that an act of a great king."

"He did what he believed was right, Master Legolas," said the Norman. "Remember, he only killed them because they refused to convert."

"Even if he did do it for those reasons which you named, a man with such a narrow world view is hardly a man worthy of so much respect. Killing those who did not agree with him was also a very convenient way to get rid of opposition. He has been dead for so many years, Master Fulk. How can you be so certain about his motives?" said the elf. He still wasn't certain that he trusted Fulk. However, Balian had insisted that Fulk was a good man, and the elf trusted Balian's judgement, most of the time.

"We can argue about this later," interrupted Balian. "Fulk, where would they keep the records?"

"Most likely in the school attached to the chapel," said the Norman. "I have heard there is a good library there."

At the word 'library', Agnes became even more excited.

"One problem," said Jack. "How are we going to get in? I doubt they just let anyone in and sally out the way the Royal Navy does."

"Jack, ye be askin' a rhetorical question," said Barbossa, rolling his eyes. "How did ye get around back in the Caribbean, hmm?"

Will's eyes widened. "You're not suggesting we steal the clothes off some poor monk's back, are you?" he said with some trepidation.

"No, Will," said Elizabeth. "We are going to steal the clothes off some poor priest's back."

"Who wants to play dress-up?" asked Jack.

* * *

The woollen cassock was irritating his skin. Fulk had never thought that being a priest would be so...uncomfortable. It was all he could do not to scratch. "I cannot believe I'm doing this," he muttered. The two unfortunate priests from whom they had borrowed their clothes were, at the moment, bound, gagged and hidden just outside of Aachen, guarded by the others. 'God, forgive me,' he prayed. 'I'm a criminal.'

"Well, believe it, will ya?" hissed Jack. "And shut up." The two kept their heads lowered as they headed towards the school. It was a round complex with a domed roof. All around the walls there were windows of plain glass to let in the light. The interior was dim, and all sounds seemed muffled, as if even the complex itself encouraged silent contemplation and study.

Jack was not so interested in contemplating or studying anything. "Where are the history books kept?" he whispered to Fulk.

"How am I supposed to know?" whispered the other man. "I've never been here. Just look around for the word and try to look as if you're supposed to be here. I don't know about you, but I've met many priors in my time, and I don't want to incur the wrath of one."

There were many shelves along the walls and in rows in the middle of the complex. Instead of having walls dividing the space inside the school, there were shelves full of dusty books. Out of curiosity, Jack plucked one from a shelf and flicked through it, and was amazed by the amazing illustrations. He was particularly impressed with the images of Christ. They were done mostly in gold leaf. The pirate looked around. Upon seeing that no one was watching him, he slipped the book underneath his cassock. It would be a pity to leave such a pretty little treasure in a school, especially a school for monks and priests who had, theoretically, turned from the lure of worldly goods. Besides, it would be charitable to remove temptation, wouldn't it?

"Jack!" hissed Fulk, waving frantically at Jack. "Over here! I've found some chronicles!"

Jack hurried over to where the Norman was, careful to hide rectangular shape beneath his cassock. Fulk would probably make him put the book back, and Captain Jack Sparrow believed in the mantra of taking all one could and giving nothing back.

"This one's by a German monk," said Fulk. "He mentions a miracle performed in a village by an old man who happened to pass by at the right moment." The knight pointed to the text. Jack turned his head this way and that way, trying to make sense of the swirling script which looked more like Turkish than Latin.

"Can you...elaborate?" said the pirate.

"It says here that there was a village somewhere in Austrasia, quite close to Strasbourg, I believe, if the chronicler was accurate. One of the children came down with some malady, and was very close to death. The village was preparing for the child's funeral when an old man passed it. On seeing them, he asked them why they were weeping. The villagers explained to him about the boy's malady. He went to see the boy, laid a hand on the boy, and murmured a few words in a strange tongue. Then he ordered some villagers to go out and some weeds. The villagers did as they were told, even though they were certain that—"

"Yes, yes," said Jack. "The boy got healed and the old man was hailed as Christ and he was given lots of gold and rum and all that. Give me a bloody description, for God's sake! Any pointy hats mentioned?"

"No," said Fulk, glaring at the rude pirate. He liked Ibelin well enough, but he had very little patience for those whom Ibelin considered friends. "The chronicler does not mention pointy hats. In fact, there is no description of the old man except that he was old and he had a very strong voice."

"Have you got any more books?" asked Jack. "With descriptions, and pretty shiny pictures?"

Before Fulk could answer, the bells of the chapel rang, calling everyone to mass. The other monks and scholars all hurried out to the chapel. "God must be on our side," Fulk whispered to Jack. "Hurry, take some books which look useful and then go!" As soon as the Norman said that, he regretted it, for the pirate somehow found a sack somewhere and was enthusiastically stuffing those books with the most gold leaf into it.

"By useful, I had meant those which had the most information, not the ones which would sell for the most on the black-market," muttered Fulk as he, too, began adding books to Jack's collection. Useful, informative ones, of course.

* * *

**A/N: **Yes, Jack is in his element. :) Anyway, I hope you enjoyed that. By the way, the chapel at Aachen really is amazing. I fell in love with carolingian architecture after I saw it. It's got Charlemagne's throne in it, and the thing is built so that the sunlight slowly travels towards the throne, and at a certain time, lands on the emperor when he's sitting on the throne and talking to his subjects. Look it up when you have some few minutes to spare.


	15. Turning Pirate

**Chance Encounter: Legacy of the Third Age**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything that you recognize; I'm just borrowing them without permission but with every intention of returning them when I'm done, savvy?

**Chapter 14: Turning Pirate**

The monk looked up from his work, completely bewildered. Where had everyone gone? Then he looked out one of the narrow windows. Christ, it was time for mass, and he had completely missed the summoning bell! He flexed his ink-stained fingers. Perhaps he should just stay here; no one would notice that he had not gone to mass, he was sure, and if anyone did ask, well, he had an excuse. Copying out Saint Augustine's works was a very important task, and perhaps the prior could give him a light penance.

Voices filtering through the many shelves caught his attention. It seemed as if he was not the only one who had missed mass. Then he froze. They were talking about prices, and gold leaf. The monk carefully moved in the direction of the voices.

"...I ain't puttin' these back an' ye can't make me, savvy?" said one voice.

"I am not letting you take any more than is necessary!" said the other. "Now, put those back! We have no need for so many copies of the Bible!"

"I'm a pirate, mate, and I ain't leavin' me gold!"

That was enough for the monk. "Thief!" he hollered, running out of the library to the chapel, where the bishop was in the middle of blessing the host. "There are thieves in the library!" Mass was forgotten as the monks rushed back to the library to save their precious manuscripts. One of those took years to make, and a lot of money and effort went into it. They were not about to let anyone walk off with their books.

"Time to go!" said Jack, stuffing one last book into his sack. He hoisted the sack onto his back and then ran out of the library, with Fulk on his heels. Despite his reluctance to take the books, the Norman also carried a lot of booty. Of course, all his books were related to the Irminsul in one way or another.

* * *

Legolas stopped in his pacing and turned towards Aachen, shielding his eyes with a slender hand. "Do you hear that?" he asked.

"Aye, we can hear it, lad," said Gimli. "What is it?"

"Do you think Jack's in trouble?" asked Paris.

"I don't _think_ Jack is in trouble," said Legolas, heading for the town. "I _know_ it." The elf broke into a sprint, quickly followed by Gimli. Will raced after them, ignoring Elizabeth's protests. The former captain's wife gave up and ran after the men, all the while muttering under her breath about the stupidity of males.

'We could be running into a trap for all we know,' she thought. She glanced back. It seemed that everyone else was joining in this ill-planned venture, even Barbossa. Well, she had expected Barbossa to come, as the old pirate would never pass up a chance to smirk at Jack.

"Stay here," Achilles said to Briseis, before he hurried off to join the others. She made to follow him, but was stopped by Paris.

"You won't be able to do anything in there," said her cousin. "Trust me, he'll fight better if he doesn't have to worry about you. Besides, someone needs to stay and guard the prisoners and Barisian." As he spoke, he reached out and grabbed the boy's arm before he could run after his father.

"Oi!" said Barisian. "I don't need no guardin'!"

"But you do need grammar lessons," said Paris sternly. "Anyway, your father told you to stay here, didn't he? That is exactly what you are going to do." Inwardly, he cringed. Gods, he sounded like a stricter version of Hector! Not that he didn't want to be his brother, but he sounded so old.

'Perhaps becoming a father changes a man,' he thought. Then his mind quickly wandered to his wife. How far along was she by now? Eight months? Nine? For all he knew, she could have given birth already, and he had not been there to support her or to greet their child. 'First time as a father, and you're already a failure, Paris.'

* * *

Aachen was filled with chaos. There were monks, priests and soldiers running in every direction. Jack dodged pushed aside anyone who got in his way, shouting apologies every time. He didn't know where he was going, and he really didn't care, as long he was going _away_ from anyone who was trying to catch him. It would be awfully embarrassing to be captured by zealots just because he stole their books. So they were very expensive books, but they were not worth killing for, right?

One monk lunged for him, trying to grab the books. Jack swung the sack around and hit the man in the face, knocking the scholar down. "My apologies, brother," said the pirate with a flourish. Now, where was that bloody gate? Aha! Over there, blocked by row upon row of imperial soldiers. Jack did not relish trying to charge through that; there was too great a risk of getting his brilliant head removed from his shoulders. He rather liked his head. The soldiers closed in around them. And then, there was a cry of 'Baruk Khazad!' as the reinforcements arrived.

Arrows pierced those closest to Jack and Fulk in quick succession. Even though he had known the 'elf' for more than a month now, the Norman was still rendered speechless by Legolas' skill in war. However, now was not the time to be awestruck; there was no way out, not even with the help of the others. They were quickly becoming isolated from each other.

There was only one way. "Jack! Throw away those books which we do not need!" shouted Fulk.

"What?!" said the pirate. "I ain't givin' them away! Not unless I have no other choice!"

"It's a last resort!" shouted Fulk, snatching Jack's sack from him. He reached in and pulled out a book, vaguely registering that it was Einhard's _Life of Charlemagne_. That could go. He knew it back to front. As he flung it into the air, the monks gave a cry of alarm and rushed into the soldiers' midst to try and catch the book, thus ruining the formation and allowing Jack and Fulk to slip away.

From a distance, Legolas saw what was going on. There was no point in fighting if Jack and Fulk were safe. "We've got to go, now!" he said.

"Why is it that each time we come to a city, we end up having to fight an army?" demanded Will as he ran. He was quite sick of this pattern. It would be nice if there was some variation, such as going into a city and coming out without mishap.

"Because we're always in the middle of doing something illegal, that's why," said Balian. "At least we've got what we need."

"Or so you hope," said Elizabeth as Jack caught up with them, carrying a heavy sack filled with what she hoped were books. Knowing Jack, they could be priceless things from the chapel. She had no idea how right she was, at least with the priceless bit.

However, as with every occasion, they found themselves hopelessly surrounded, this time by common citizens as well as soldiers. Balian slowly took a high guard. He had no desire to kill innocents, but sometimes, men had to make difficult choices. They probably had no qualms about killing him. Then again, he was a fugitive.

The soldiers tried to push the civilians back; they would be no use if a fight did break out. The monks, however, refused to retreat. These books were their livelihood; for some, they were their only purpose in life. Along with the soldiers, they advanced. Legolas caught Balian's eye, and then nodded slightly. The man was confused. That look meant that the elf had an idea, but what idea could he possibly have?

Before anyone could say anything, Legolas' arm snaked out and snagged that of a monk. He hooked his arm around the man's neck and pointed his knife at him. The army and the rest of the monks stopped advancing. "Tell them that if they give us free passage, no harm will come to this man," Legolas said to his companions. Fulk translated it into Latin, but it was quite clear to the soldiers what this golden stranger intended to do anyway.

The captain's command was terse. If they harmed the monk, they would be massacred. If they surrendered, they would still be killed, only in slightly less bloody ways.

"Tell them that we will fight, and they will die," said Elizabeth.

"Are you certain about this claim?" asked Fulk. Dying was bad enough. He had no desire to die while sounding like a fool. As if in reply, Elizabeth raised her pistol and fired a shot. The sound shocked everyone in the vicinity. Almost.

The slight pause was enough for Anna-Maria, Will and Barbossa to copy Legolas' move and take more monks as hostages. It was pure luck that Anna-Maria's hostage happened to be the prior and brother to a rather important cardinal. The old man shouted out to the soldiers in rapid Latin. It was too quick for Balian to understand most of what he was saying, but the meaning was quite obvious. He didn't want to die.

"We have more scallywags wif us than I'd first thought," said Jack, grinning at the elf. Legolas glared at him, causing him to lose the grin.

"If not for you, I would still be an honourable elf-lord," he said.

"Believe me, laddie," said Gimli, laughing despite their dire situation. "You ceased to be honourable long ago." The dwarf winked at his friend. If Legolas was annoyed before, he was incensed right now.

The soldiers parted ranks and let them through. Fulk declared that if they followed them out of the city, then he would not be able to guarantee the safety of the hostages. The captain spat something in reply. Although most of them did not know Latin, it was not hard to tell what the captain had said. Stealing sacred texts was a great offence.

Still threatening their hostages, the company moved out of the city, with the glares of the citizens and the soldiers following them. However, they could do nothing if they wanted the cardinal's brother back unharmed. Balian winced as he realized what exactly he'd done. This was robbery, pure and simple. Godfrey would be so proud of him.

* * *

Agnes shielded her eyes with her hand. Worry gnawed at her heart. They were all taking a very long time. What if something had happened to Balian, or to one of the others? She had grown very fond of all of them, especially of Elizabeth, who was always kind to her, and even of Jack, the roguish charming pirate.

She narrowed her eyes as she saw figures hurrying in her direction. There seemed to be too many of them, although they did not seem panicked, which was a good thing. As they drew closer, she noticed that they had hostages with them. For the first time, it dawned on her what sort of company she had fallen in with. Somehow, the realization did not disturb her as much as had thought it would.

"Time to go!" said Paris, lifting up Barisian and placing him on Walnut's back. Their prisoners, on seeing that they were about to be rescued, wriggled and struggled with renewed fervour. One was speaking into his gag, and although Paris did not know what he was saying, he was pretty sure the priest was cursing.

"Are you sure we can't untie their bonds?" asked Agnes, looking down uncomfortably at the priests as she climbed onto Walnut behind Barisian and Heloise.

"Being bound for a little longer won't harm them overmuch," said Paris. "We've got to run before the troops get here!"

"They've got hostages, Highness," said Heloise. "Surely no one will come after them." As she spoke, she felt the blood rush to her cheeks. Paris was a prince. It was not in her place to speak with him. In fact, she felt rather out of place amongst such fine company. Everyone was a lord or lady of some sort, perhaps with the exception of Anna-Maria, but even the female pirate was a captain in her own right.

"They won't stay behind forever," said Paris. "We're still vulnerable." The others soon caught up with them and the hostages were abandoned. The soldiers would come and rescue them sooner or later; they were in no mortal danger.

The company quickly left Aachen behind and made for the wilderness again. It would be harder for anyone to find them there. The dark forest, for once, seemed slightly more welcoming. Legolas almost herded them towards the forest at an otherworldly pace. The men would have complained, if they had not been too breathless. As it was, Gimli kept on hollering at him, telling him to slow down for the sake of weaker mortals.

"If we slow down, we will get caught," the elf said bluntly, before telling them all to pick up their pace. Only when they had reached the forest did he give them some reprieve.

Balian collapsed to the ground, wheezing. He was still not fully healed, and all this running had taken its toll on him. Barisian slid down from Walnut's back and ran to him. "Are you all right, Papa?" he asked. Balian could only nod and smile at his son to assure him that he was unhurt.

"Not much...fighting..." he panted.

Agnes handed him a water skin, and he took it gratefully, waiting until he could breathe properly before he drank from it. The last thing he needed was to get water in his lungs.

"Did you get the books?" asked Paris.

"We have some," said Fulk, wheezing for breath. Was life going to be like this from now on? There seemed to be a lot of running involved, and he wasn't sure if he liked the idea.

Agnes began to rummage through Jack's sack, trying her best to push her nagging conscience to the back of her mind. A voice kept on repeating in her head, saying, 'thou shalt not steal.' She knew she was sinning, but it was for the greater good, so God would forgive her, wouldn't He? The girl pulled out two books. "Why do we need two copies of the Bible?" she asked, looking up, her face filled with perplexity.

Fulk glared at Jack, who simply shrugged. "Luv, we are..." he said, waved his hands around at everyone, "...criminals. We need to pray for our immortal souls, savvy?"

"Are you sure you didn't steal them for the gold leaf?" asked Paris, flicking through the books with utmost care. He couldn't read a single word, as it was all in Latin, but the illustrations were quite beautiful. They had the brightest colours, and he could see the love that the artist had put into each picture. He gently brushed his fingers over them.

"So, do we have any books about the Irminsul?" demanded Achilles. His expression was thunderous. He did not rush into a dangerous situation just so he could save a pirate who could not keep his lust for wealth at bay.

"We have a few pertaining to a strange old man," said Fulk, showing them the account which he had shown to Jack.

"I found something else," said Agnes, flicking through another book. "There was another sighting not long after." She looked up at Balian. "It was at Nièvre."

Balian examined a heavy volume which had been bound in leather. "I think I see a pattern. Whoever this old man was, he seemed to be heading west," he said as he looked up at the others. "I think he went to England."

"If he did, then he really did take a lot of detours," said Fulk. "He was in southern France at one point."

At the mention of southern France, almost everyone cheered up. "Sunshine," said Elizabeth dreamily.

"Wine," said Jack, grinning.

"We're not going to southern France," declared Balian. "This Maia might have gone to the south before turning northwest, but we are not taking his path."

"Balian's right," said Will. "It would take too long."

"Great," muttered Jack. "More rain; just what I need."

* * *

"What happened here?" Ambrosius demanded of the prior of the school at Aachen. He had arrived in the city to find that chaos had somehow taken her throne there. Apparently, someone had managed to steal a great number of priceless books from the library.

The prior, after begging Ambrosius for forgiveness, explained that the thieves had taken some of the monks hostage, thus the soldiers had had no choice but to let them go. As the cardinal listened, he clenched his hands into fists. There was no doubt as to who had taken those books. Once again, that heretic and his accomplices were one step ahead of him. "What books did they take?"

The old man produced a list of all the missing books. As Ambrosius read it, he became rather confused. Who would need two copies of the Bible? The Benedictine Rule? Ibelin had seemed like the last person on earth who would want to become a monk. The Aeneid? All right, that was interesting, but entirely useless. Then things started to make more sense, for all the rest of the books pertained to the time of Charlemagne's last Saxon campaign, and the period afterwards. He made note of all of them.

"Do you have more of these books?" he asked. "I wish to examine them." The prior nodded, eager to compensate for his failure by helping the cardinal in whatever way he could. Perhaps if Ambrosius was pleased, then he would not strip him of his position.

As the cardinal and the Inquisitors searched through the books, they became aware of something. Most of them had accounts of a strange old man, and he had moved from somewhere in southern Germany, where the Irminsul had last been seen, slowly to the west. "In what direction did the thieves go?" he asked of the prior.

"West," replied the man. "I heard one of them talking about ports; they thought I did not understand French."

Ambrosius stood up. He was certain that Balian had found the location of the Irminsul, and wherever it was, he needed to get there by sea. "Send word to Philippe of France," he said. "Tell him to increase the number of guards at every port; his dear cousin might be going somewhere, and he wouldn't want that now, would he?"

* * *

The campfire crackled merrily, sending up sparks. It was the only cheerful thing on this dark night. Barisian slept fitfully in Balian's arms, and everyone else, except for Walnut, was seated in a ring around the fire, discussing their next course of action.

"I have one question," said Barbossa, feeding a stick to the flames. "If we all be fugitives, and everyone be wantin' our heads on spikes, then how will we get a passage to England, especially since the King of France _and _the pope be after us?"

"They don't need to know that we're fugitives," said Will.

"But I think Aachen would have sent word to every monarch in Christendom now," said Balian. "Everyone would be searched. We do have a lot of stolen property with us. Besides, some of us have rather memorable appearances." As he said the last sentence, he looked at Jack, and then at Legolas and Gimli.

"I don't know why you're all so confused," said Jack. "I would have thought that it would be obvious."

"Please do share, Captain Sparrow," said Balian.

"We commandeer a ship, savvy?"

* * *

French ports, Balian decided, were quite different from Italian and Sicilian ports, especially those along the Atlantic coastline. Cold sea breeze blew the scent of brine towards them, and grey clouds loomed on the horizon to the west. Ships bobbed up and down on the dark ocean like toys of Calypso. Their standards fluttered in the wind.

The port of Calais was the one which was the closest to England, although it was by no means the safest. Fulk had suggested buying a passage to England in a port in Normandy, but the problem was that their funds had run out, and selling manuscripts on the black-market was not an option.

"If only we could somehow let my brother know about our situation," muttered Paris. "Surely he would know how to help us."

"Hector has his own task now," said Will. "The captain of the _Dutchman_ should remain in the Underworld until Calypso chooses to release him."

"What about Calypso then?" asked Balian. "Can't she help us?" He had no desire to commandeer a ship. For one, he was no sailor, and these ships were not the best which he had seen. Certainly they did not look as sturdy as the Venetian galley which he'd been travelling in when he had been shipwrecked just off the coast of the Holy Land.

"She won't help us," said Will. "Calypso is a temperamental being, and this time, it probably doesn't suit her to help us."

"Ladies and gentlemen," said Jack, straightening his hat. "You have Captain Jack Sparrow with you. There is no ship in the world which I cannot commandeer, savvy?"

"As in borrowing without permission, which in other words, means steal?" said Fulk dryly. During his time with these odd people, he had learned a few interesting words, most of which seemed to be euphemisms for illegal activities.

"No, I mean commandeer," said Jack. He flapped his hands at the confused Norman. "'Tis a nautical term, savvy?"

"You don't 'steal' ships, ever," Elizabeth elaborated. "You simply commandeer them. It sounds much better."

"The theory is still more or less the same," said Legolas.

"Yes, but that's beside the point."

"Yes, yes," said Balian hurriedly, before any of his friends could get into an argument over vocabulary, nautical or not. "We need to get to England, so I would appreciate it if we could put our plan into action. How are we going to steal a ship?"

"Commandeer!" came three voices in unison, his son's being one of them, and Jack and Elizabeth's being the other two.

"You and I need to talk, young man," said Balian, frowning at Barisian. Sometimes, his son overstepped the line between wit and disrespect, and this was one of those times. He had no desire for his child to become another Jack Sparrow.

"Right, we need to somehow get onto a ship," said Will, diverting everyone's attention. "We'll just have to sneak up like we did last time, using those upturned lifeboats as cover..."

"Not to be a harbinger of bad news," said Balian, "but we don't have lifeboats." There was silence. No lifeboats? Will hit his thigh with his fist in frustration. At this rate, they were never going to get to England, and he was certain that that cardinal, whatever his name was, would be intelligent enough to follow their trail. They would all be burnt at the stake, and the Irminsul would fall into the wrong hands, and then who knew what could happen after that? However, one look at Paris told him that this was not to be the case.

"Do you know something which we don't, Paris?" he asked.

"You remember the wooden horse at Troy, right?" said the Trojan prince.

"How can I forget?" asked Achilles. "I was in it."

"We can try the same thing again, but this time, we'll do it with crates," said Paris. "Some of us will pretend to be dock workers, and the rest of us will be hiding in the crates. The workers will smuggle the crates onboard, and then we just take the ship and we're on our way. How does that sound?"

"Better than the lifeboat plan," said Balian. He sighed. "First, I'm a heretic, then I'm a robber, and now I'm a pirate. What's next?"

"Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate's life for me," Jack sang softly, grinning at the fugitive knight.

Unknown to the company, someone had seen them, and the man had heard everything too.

* * *

Jack peered at the ships through Will's spyglass as the others talked, trying to find one which he liked. Somehow, he'd lost his. He had to admit that now that he was here, he really didn't feel like commandeering one of those leaky barges. It wasn't worth the effort, especially since they looked as if they would sink if they encountered a particularly nasty storm. He wished he had his _Pearl_ with him, or even that Gondorian ship which was now stuck in a French forest. He finally picked one which looked the sturdiest; a cargo ship, probably carrying wine and silk and spices from the east.

"Whelp, look at that one," he said, pointing at the chosen victim and handing the spyglass back to Will.

"It looks seaworthy," said Will. "So, we are going to commandeer that one, right?"

"Right," said Jack, grinning. "Take all you can; give nuthin' back!"

* * *

Despite the cold, sweat beaded on his skin as Balian tried to lift one of the crates. "Why do...you have to...be...so...heavy?" he panted. On the other side, Will was puffing and wisely saving his strength.

"I'm not that heavy," came a muffled hiss from within. "You're just weak." Ah, Paris. Well, perhaps he wasn't that heavy, but the crate certainly was. Then again, it was a very large crate. Just as well they didn't have to try and smuggle the horse onboard.

As his thoughts wandered to Walnut, Balian felt a pang of regret. He'd been very fond of that animal, and selling him had been a difficult decision, but he'd had no choice. They really couldn't commandeer a ship if they had to watch out for a destrier who had the tendency to lose his temper easily. At any rate, a common merchant sailor could hardly afford such a fine destrier, and the gold was welcome.

Jack had managed to persuade the captain of his targeted ship that they were merchant sailors who needed an urgent passage across the ocean. The captain had been dubious at first, but extra payment —from the sale of Balian's horse— soon persuaded him let them onboard the ship. Disguised as common sailors, they did not look as if they were going to be a threat to anyone. Of course, both Achilles and Balian had hidden one of Legolas' knives under their clothes, and Jack had his pistol. Their other weapons were hidden with their companions.

They set the crate down on the floor of the cargo hold with a loud thud. "Careful!" Paris whispered.

"Quiet," Will said in an almost inaudible voice. "You're cargo."

Next to them, Achilles set down a smaller crate carefully. That one was very silent. Barisian was good at hiding, and he took commandeering ships very seriously. After all, this was a first for him. "Now, listen to me, Bari," said Balian. "You're not coming out until I say you can, so don't try anything, or you will be in trouble, young man."

"I promised I wouldn't, Papa," came the child's voice from inside the crate. "I keep my promises."

"Good," said Balian. At least his son was not fully a young pirate yet. Perhaps there was still hope.

"Oi, you!" shouted one of the sailors, poking his head into the cargo hold. "You're takin' an awfully long time down there."

"I'm just making sure that everything is secure," said Balian. "Can't have the crates rolling about during a storm." He was very grateful that he had managed to learn something about ships during his time spent with members of the Gondorian 'navy'.

"Believe me, friend," said the sailor. "If we do get caught in a storm, God forbid, the cargo would be the least of our worries."

The anchor was raised, and the sails were hoisted out. There was a good wind coming from the east, and they were sailing quickly towards England. The sky was clear, for the moment, but all the men onboard knew how treacherous the sea could be.

"Is it time yet?" Balian whispered to Jack as he passed the pirate.

"Wait a while longer. It's too soon to go below deck," replied Jack. He saw Achilles looking at him with a questioning expression; presumably the Greek was thinking the exact same thing as Balian had been. He shook his head subtly, making sure that no one saw.

As time passed, the mainland was no more than a dark line on the horizon. It was not until that afternoon when Jack realized that they were sailing in the wrong direction. This ship was supposed to be heading west. Why, then, had the ship turned southeast? He cursed himself for having let down his guard. He had been too confident, even though he would never admit it.

Balian had also noticed that something was wrong. What was going on? "Captain?" he said. "I thought we were going to England."

"Did you now?" said the captain of the ship, smiling in amusement. "That's odd, because I thought we were heading for Rome." With that, he drew his sword. "In the name of the Holy Father and of the King, I arrest you, traitor!"

* * *

**A/N: **Cliffie is back! Hope you enjoyed the chapter. You didn't think I would let them off that easily, did you?


	16. In the Lion's Den

**Chance Encounter: Legacy of the Third Age**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything that you recognize; I'm just borrowing them without permission but with every intention of returning them when I'm done, savvy?

**Smithy: **Paris is just a little bit nervous; it's his first time as a father, after all, and he's also missing Helen, so he's feeling a bit depressed. Thanks for the review. I'm glad you're enjoying this.

**Chapter 15: In the Lion's Den**

As the captain of the ship pointed his sword at Balian, the other man whipped out Legolas' long white knife and prepared to defend himself. He noticed that Achilles had also done the same thing, but they were too far away from each other to be able to get into any sort of defensive formation.

"You work for Philippe?" said Balian. He gave a short bitter laugh. God was toying with him, of that he was almost certain. Or he was simply a fool. To have come so far only to fall into the hands of his royal cousin once again; it had to be more than just a coincidence. At that moment, Jack pulled out his pistol and fired a shot, killing a sailor who was about to seize him.

"No matter," he said. "I'm still takin' yer ship, savvy?"

The pirate blew on his pistol. That was a bit of a modification from the original plan, but Captain Jack Sparrow wasn't about to let such a trifling thing stop him from commandeering a ship, even though this was not the cargo ship he had thought it was. The King of France owed them a sword anyway.

* * *

Legolas heard the gunshot. Something had gone wrong. The signal was supposed to be Jack singing his favourite song, and no one mentioned shooting anyone. He pushed open the lid of his crate, which had not been nailed down properly in the first place, and clambered out into the cargo hold. He wasn't the only one.

Everywhere, his companions were emerging from crates and stretching their cramped muscles. "I be thinkin' now be the opportune moment," said Barbossa.

"I agree," said Legolas, climbing up the steps which led onto the deck, an arrow already nocked to his bow.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," said Jack, grinning at the French sailors who were obviously soldiers in disguise. "The ship is ours."

"I am not about to let you take a ship of the royal fleet!" said the captain. "To arms, brothers!"

"If you think this floatin' wreck is capable of fighting battles, you'd better think again," said Jack.

For a moment, chaos reigned on the deck of the ship. Balian twisted aside to avoid being eviscerated by the captain and managed to score a gash down the man's leg with his long elvish knife. However, he was not used to such lightweight weapons. Even worse, the knife had no guard, and that really did limit his repertoire of moves. The captain lunged at him, and he dropped and rolled, swiping out with a leg and tripping up the man in the process. What was a reasonably skilled duel became a wrestling match on the boards of the deck. At such close range, the captain's long sword wasn't of much use.

The man unsheathed his dagger, and Balian grabbed his hand before the weapon could be plunged into his neck. However, the captain was determined to stick his blade somewhere. It took most of Balian's strength to keep it away from him.

It seemed that some of the other soldiers had thought that Elizabeth and Anna Maria would be easy prey. A group of them surrounded the two women with leers on their faces. Pretty women were simply a bonus. Elizabeth was unfazed. She'd many other men of similar ilk in her time, and she'd been able to defend herself every time; why should these be any different?

One fool was careless enough to step within range of her sword, and she struck out, slashing his face open. He screamed as his hand flew to his ruined face. From amidst his pain-filled babble, Elizabeth could discern a flurry of insult directed at her person and her morality.

"And that's 'Your Majesty' to you, soldier," she said as he threw a particularly bad word at her. "I didn't get elected as Pirate King for nothing."

Elvish knives were all very well, but Achilles found himself missing his sword. He'd become accustomed to the weight of his Gondorian weapon, and it worked much better for a man who liked momentum in his blows. As if he could read his mind, Legolas tossed the desired weapon to the Greek. Achilles leapt and caught it in mid air, unsheathing it with speed which did not seem possible for a mortal man. The knife was returned to its proper owner. Perhaps Legolas could put it to better use.

Paris clambered onto the rigging and stayed hidden behind the mast. Skirmishes were not his thing, and apart from archery, he wasn't good at anything which resembled combat. He put another arrow to his bow and fired it at a soldier who was about to stab Barbossa in the back. And then he had no time to worry about anyone else as another soldier discovered his hiding place. Just as he thought he was about to be decapitated, his attacker gave a strangled cry and then fell to the deck with a thud. Gimli stood behind him, brandishing a bloodied axe. "Lad," he said, hoisting Paris to his feet. "After we finish this, you're getting sword lessons."

"Believe me, Hector's tried his very best to teach me," said Paris. "It hasn't worked."

The captain's dagger was drawing closer and closer to Balian's neck. The man surely knew he was going to die, but he seemed determined to take at least one of these heretics with him. With one final surge of strength, he plunged downwards. At the last moment, Balian twisted his body so that the man missed his neck and buried the blade in his shoulder instead. Curses spilled from his mouth as pain shot down his arm. He drove his forehead into the bridge of the other man's nose. There was a crack as the bone broke under the impact. The man's grip on him loosened, and Balian was able to throw him off.

The two men circled each other. Balian's left arm hung limply by his side and blood dripped from his fingertips. With such a handicap, he was vulnerable, and he was not the only one who saw that. The other soldiers surrounded him. This one was going down.

Will saw his friend's predicament. If he didn't do something soon, then all their struggles to free Balian would have been for nothing. Without a thought for his own safety, he threw himself into their midst, thus diverting their attention from the wounded knight.

The fighting seemed to go on for a long time, but by the end of it, bodies lay strewn across the deck and the wooden boards were slick with blood. Once again, the rabble of nobles and pirates had emerged victorious.

Will collapsed to the deck, gasping for breath and trying not to make Elizabeth notice him. Heroism had its price, and this time, he was sure he'd paid it. The last thing he needed was for Elizabeth to be upset with him. However, Will had forgotten about how observant his friend Jack Sparrow could be.

"Whelp! What happened to you?" asked the pirate. His dark eyes were filled with concern.

"It's nothing," said Will through gritted teeth, trying to hide his wounded side from Jack's view. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate Jack's concern, but the pirate was drawing far too much attention to him.

"Will, let me look at that!" said Elizabeth. Too late; she'd seen the blood soaking his shirt.

"Elizabeth, there is no need—" Will began, but he was cut off by Elizabeth's gasp.

"I think I'll go find bandages and alcohol," Gimli murmured to Legolas. Many others were wounded, although not so badly.

"Good idea," said the elf, "and let the rest of them out of the crates. They've been down there for long enough."

* * *

Will winced as Elizabeth cleaned the long gash on his side with a rag soaked in vinegar. The acidic liquid stung his raw flesh, although he knew that it would prevent the wound from turning septic. "You're lucky you weren't eviscerated," said Elizabeth. "What were you thinking?"

"Lizzie, I think you know exactly what he was thinking," said Jack. "You would've done the same thing if you had been in his place." He shook his head. "You and your honour." The pirate turned and went back to the stern, shading his eyes with a bejewelled hand. Finally, they were on their way to England, after a long detour.

The bodies of the dead had been thrown overboard, after Fulk had said the proper prayers. The Norman had argued that everyone deserved the proper last rites, and although throwing bodies to the fish wasn't exactly proper, it was the best they could do in this situation. The survivors had been locked in the brig.

As Elizabeth wrapped bandages around Will's torso, Balian wandered over with his arm in a sling. "I want to thank you, Will," he said. "You saved my life, and at the expense of your own."

"You would've done the same for me," said Will. "We're friends, Balian. Friends do these things for each other." He looked at his friend's arm. "How's your shoulder?"

"It won't kill me," said Balian. He smiled. "Well, I'd better go get Barisian before he annoys Barbossa so much that he'll throw the boy overboard."

"You know Barbossa dotes on the children," said Will, laughing softly, and then wincing as the movement aggravated his wound. He sighed. Elizabeth would probably make him lie still for the rest of the trip to England. Why did wounds have to take so long to heal? The pain wasn't the worst part; it was the boredom.

* * *

England; it seemed that the medieval version was as wet and dreary as Will had remembered it to be. It was close to nightfall. Grey clouds veiled the sunset, and a thick fog had settled over the land. The cold wet air did very little to make them more comfortable. "Remember, we're sticking to the wilderness from now on," said Balian.

"King Richard is no friend of Philippe's," said Agnes. "Can't we go to him for help?" There were a few sniggers in answer to what she thought was a very sensible suggestion. Balian grimaced.

"Richard is no friend of mine either," he said. She could hear the hardness in his voice. Before she could ask him what was wrong with the Crusader King, he stalked off to talk to Legolas, who was at the front of the group.

"Richard was the one who killed Barisian's mother," Paris told her softly, so that Balian would not be able to hear it. The last thing anyone needed was for him to be in a foul mood. And it would be best if Barisian didn't find out either. The poor boy had enough bad memories.

At that revelation, Agnes' eyes widened. "But I thought she died of typhoid," she whispered to Paris. "That's what everyone said!"

"Of course that's what Richard would tell everyone, and Balian wasn't there to put that to rights," said the Trojan. "It would hardly be good for Richard if the world knew that he shot the Queen of Jerusalem and tried to use her son for his own gain."

Agnes' hand flew to her mouth. "That's awful!" she whispered. "Everywhere I look, there are lies covering terrible truths. I don't know whether I'll be able to trust anyone again."

"All of us are trustworthy, even the Greek," said Paris.

At the front of the company, Balian and Legolas were now discussing where they should spend the night. The English winter was proving to be just as unpleasant as the German one, and they needed some form of shelter. "Do you think there will be some more nice...what do you call them... 'pagan' villages?" asked Gimli.

"No doubt there will be," said Fulk. He didn't like the idea of turning to pagans all the time, but what choice did he have? Any dutiful Christian would probably feel that it was their obligation to kill them on sight. "England was the last place in the west to hold out against Rome, and the agents of the Church have not reached every corner of the godforsaken island yet."

"Excuse me," said Elizabeth, glaring at the Norman. "Godforsaken? I think not. England is one of the richest nations in the world. That is why Richard could go on Crusade for as long as he did."

"Please," said Will softly. He had no desire to listen to yet another long argument between his wife and someone else. It wasn't that he didn't like her spirit; he admired it very much, but sometimes it was too much to bear. To her credit, Elizabeth did not pursue the matter. Instead, she went to her husband.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, looking him up and down. He grinned at her.

"Much better, Mrs. Turner," he said. "Truly, I had no idea you were such a fine nurse. Perhaps I should get hurt more—"

"Will! You're talking nonsense!" Elizabeth hit him on the arm, not hard, but enough to make her point. "I don't want to hear you saying anything like that again!"

"Elizabeth, I was just jesting..."

Elizabeth bit her lip. "Well, it wasn't funny at all," she said, her voice trembling. "I almost lost you that day on the _Dutchman_, and for a few moments, I did. I don't want to go through all of that again."

Will gathered Elizabeth into his arms and she laid her head on his shoulder with a sigh. He kissed the top of her head. "You won't lose me," he whispered. The comforting rhythm of his steady heartbeat soothed Elizabeth somewhat, and for a moment, she felt as if she was back home. She was sick of this Irminsul nonsense. The sooner they sorted that out, the better.

* * *

Gimli muttered a string of curses under his breath as he tried to coax a flame onto damp wood, with very little success. He glanced up to see Barisian watching him curiously, trying to learn as many new cuss words as he could. "Lad," said the dwarf. "If your father catches you repeating any of those things, I'll bet that you won't be sittin' down for a week."

"Papa won't hit me, and I'll make sure he doesn't hear," said Barisian in a conspiratorial whisper. "Anyway, he says bad words when he thinks I'm not listening, so he shouldn't be angry anyway."

Gimli shook his head and bowed his head so that he was laughing into his beard. Otherwise, the others would ask him what was going on and he would feel obliged to explain. "Ai, lad! What are we going to do with you?" The boy giggled at the dwarf's over dramatic tone, and Gimli winked at him. Apparently, now that he was with his father and his numerous 'uncles' and 'aunts', the child's nightmare had turned into one big adventure, at least for him.

He turned back to trying to light a fire. It wouldn't do to have Legolas teasing him again about the skill of the dwarves. Of course, should that happen, he always had a story concerning a certain elf and a pretty Haradrim concubine at hand. After a lot of cursing and sweating, a flame finally settled on the damp wood. Gimli added more sticks slowly, for fear of smothering the fire. He did not want to repeat the entire process again.

The campfire drew all the others towards it, for it was getting very cold, and the wind was beginning to howl. As soon as Balian sat down, Barisian clambered over to him and settled in his father's arms. "You've been learning more bad words, haven't you?" Balian asked his son. Barisian gaped at him.

"How did you know?" he asked.

Balian laughed and winked. "Well, let's say that fathers have very good hearing," he said. Upon hearing that, Legolas smirked. He'd been the one who had informed Balian as to what his son had been learning. "So you'd better not let me catch you saying those things. Those words aren't used in polite company."

"Just as well we ain't polite company, then," said Jack, drinking the last of the wine which he'd found on their commandeered ship.

"Jack, when you have your own son, you can decide how you want to raise him," said Balian. "Meanwhile, I would like to raise mine the way I want."

"As in _not_ a pirate," Will elaborated. "And that goes for Willie and Jane too."

"The Whelplet doesn't need me to teach him to be a pirate," said Jack. "He _is_ a pirate, savvy?" When Will glared at him, Jack put up his hands. "It ain't me fault!" As he said it, he jerked his thumb in Barbossa's direction.

* * *

Richard, King of England, widely known as 'Lionheart', regarded the bedraggled French sailors who stood before him. "Are you saying that you were bested by a rabble of pirates?" he said. The Angevin king could not help but smirk. Philippe had always been militarily incompetent; he would have loved to have seen a confrontation between the French King and his soldier cousin.

"They weren't a rabble," said the French sailor. "Those men are dangerous. They have these things which make loud noises and which shoot fire. Many of our men fell to those weapons."

Richard stiffened. Yes, he remembered something like that. Balian had tried to use one on him, and the ensuing explosion had caused chaos in Tripoli for three days. If these men were in England, then perhaps it wasn't as trivial as he'd first thought. There had been no friendship between him and Balian. What if the other man was threatening his hold on his kingdom somehow? It would be best to kill him before it came to that. Besides, the Pope had decreed that all of Christendom had the responsibility to hunt down this heretic. As a good pious Christian king, he would do well to lead the chase.

"Well, then," said Richard, rising from his throne. He was taller than most men by at least half a head, and he cut an impressive figure. As he stood, his subjects bowed. "We cannot let these men pollute English soil. Send out messengers. We will hunt them down like hounds in the chase. No matter how many holes they dig, they will not hide from us."

* * *

Manuscripts were spread out across the forest floor. Fulk's back ached from bending over them for so long, but he hardly registered his discomfort. Now that they were in England, where in England would the Irminsul be? The books mentioned nothing else except that the old man had been sighted once, near Ipswich, and then once more at Nottingham. Then all records ended, and there was nothing more about the old man or the Irminsul.

"We have nothing but these two places to go by," said Balian. He had sketched a rough outline of England in the dirt with a stick, and was now plotting places on it. "First, he landed in Ipswich, then he headed west, for Nottingham. Presuming that he was going in more or less a straight line, he would have been heading for Scottish territory."

"You know that this old fella doesn't go anywhere in straight lines," grumbled Jack, wrapping his cloak more firmly about his shoulders. "If he did, then we'd be in Southern France, enjoying good wine and not that vinegar which we found in that leaky barge." Despite the pale sunlight shining through the leafy canopy, the air was still bitterly cold and damp, and for someone used to the Caribbean sun, England was Hell.

"Then we have to go to Nottingham and see what we find there," said Balian. He peered over Fulk's shoulder, narrowing his eyes as he tried to decipher the swirling Carolingian script. "I think it indicates that he did something there, although we don't know what. However, if it was worth mentioning in a manuscript, then obviously it was memorable. Perhaps the locals would know a bit more."

"I thought you said we were sticking to the wilderness," said Will.

"It's called an exception, mate," said Jack.

"That's correct, Captain Sparrow," said Balian, rising and brushing dead leaves from his breeches. "Besides, Nottingham should be safe. It is very far from London, and I think Richard would want to be close to Normandy, in case Philippe tries something. The whole world knows that my royal cousin has been after Richard's French territory for a while."

"I thought I was getting sick of all these kings and princes," remarked Elizabeth. "Now I'm quite glad that they squabble such a lot. Leaves them less time to worry about us."

* * *

Paul stared across the ocean as the ship brought them ever closer to England and the heretics. He wasn't sure why Ambrosius was so eager to catch them himself. The Inquisitor had faith in Richard of England; he was not called the Greatest Crusader by his people for nothing. Of course, many Englishmen hated paying the Saladin Tithe so that their king could go and fight for Christendom, but Paul had learned long ago to ignore the opinion of the vulgar masses.

The ship cut through the water like a knife through flesh. Philippe had been forced to give them the best ship which he owned. Paul did not like Philippe of France much. He was not a truly pious man; rather, he was using the Church to help him get rid of a rival. It never occurred to him that Ambrosius might not have a very holy purpose either.

"Where do we head for once we get to England?" he asked the cardinal. The older man's red robes whipped about him in the strong wind. Despite the fact that he was old and had been travelling for many months, his eyes were as bright and sharp as ever. In fact, he resembled a warlock, not a churchman.

"The stone circles," said Ambrosius.

"Stone circles?" asked Paul. The cardinal looked at him and gave a thin smile.

"These men are heretics," he said. "It is very likely that they practise the dark arts. Where better to do that than at the mystical stone circles of England?" Paul nodded, not really comprehending. Ambrosius didn't expect him to. In fact, he felt that it was likely that a powerful pagan artefact like the Irminsul would be hidden near one of those stone circles. After all, were they not built by pagan wizards? 'Druids', some books had called them. He wondered if there were any left in the world. The Church had been thorough in cleansing the world, but even the most thorough farmer would miss one or two weeds. And if there were indeed still some druids left, would he be able to entice them to join him? With their power behind him, and the Irminsul, he would be unstoppable.

The English shore came into view. It was only a very faint view, for the entire island was veiled in mist, as if the pagan powers were trying to hide their last western stronghold from the Church. The shore seemed dark, and as they drew closer, jagged rocks stuck out like the teeth of great monsters of old, trying to ensnare their ship. The sailors navigated through the treacherous rocks expertly, and it wasn't long before the ship ploughed into the beach.

"This truly is a godforsaken place," said Paul, looking around. It seemed so dark and it was as if the land itself did not want them there. "Why didn't we sail up the Thames and dock in London? Surely it would have been easier to do that."

"And while we wasted time in doing that, who knows what evils those heretics would have unleashed?" said Ambrosius. The sooner he found them, the better. In his heart, he felt that they were very close to the Irminsul. "Send word to King Richard and tell him for forgive us, for we won't be going to his court. We will be scouring England for these heretics." Balian would lead him to the Silmaril; of that he was certain.

* * *

The stone castle at Nottingham rose up like a thorn, marring the horizon with its dark silhouette. "I don't like the look of this place," Will whispered to Balian. He'd heard the stories about Nottingham. In Will's world, it was famous for its corrupt sheriff and the heroes which emerged to fight this injustice. Whether those were just stories or actual history was not clear.

"We've got no choice," said Balian. "This is the only place where we can find more clues, and I need to find that Irminsul and destroy it if possible."

"It's not possible," said Legolas, who'd overheard them. "You can't destroy a Silmaril. Perhaps if we alert that Maia, and I'm sure he is a Maia, he will know what to do with that cardinal."'

"What if he doesn't?" asked Jack. The elf gave no answer. Instead, he covered his head with the hood of his cloak. The rest of them followed suit. Most of them looked too outlandish to be Englishmen and it would be best if they could blend into the background. Gimli tried to stay behind someone at all times so that he was hidden. He just hoped that they would not find themselves trapped in that castle. Getting out would be a bit of a problem.

The church of Nottingham, in contrast, was a ramshackle stone building which looked as if it had been built in the time of Constantine the First. Many tiles were missing from the roof, and the door's knocker had been stolen. If it hadn't had a cross on the door, one would have mistaken it for a Roman ruin. "Here's a lord who is not religious at all," said Paris. "I wonder if it's a good or bad thing."

"From what I've learned about England, the High Sheriff of Nottinghamshire is in charge here," said Balian. "There is no 'lord'. The sheriff answers directly to Richard."

"Guess who's going to be Robin Hood," Jack whispered to Will.

"Robin who?" said Balian.

"Nuthin'," said Jack with a shrug. He didn't want to have to tell the tale to someone who had the potential to be the tale's hero. "I was just talkin' nonsense, savvy?"

Balian shook his head. He was in no mood for more of Jack's 'nonsense'. He strode towards the little church and banged on the door with his fist.

"For the love of God!" cried a voice inside. "The world is coming to an end when men pound on the door of the House of God as if it is that of a tavern!" The hinges creaked as the door opened slowly to reveal a priest so old that his back was bent. He squinted up at Balian's face. "What do you want?"

"We are pilgrims," said Balian quickly. "We were coming down from the north to go to the shrine of the blessed Thomas Beckett when we saw this church. Father, why is it like this?" He waved his hand at the rotting rafters and the missing tiles.

"Pilgrims, eh?" said the old priest. "Well, don't just stand there. Come in. It's not a Sunday, but I can say mass for you."

"Thank you, but no," said Balian. "We do not have the time—"

Legolas' sudden gasp interrupted him. The elf was staring at a carving on the wall; it showed an old man with a long beard, a staff and a pointed hat. Under his arm, he carried a chest.

* * *

**A/N: **I hope you enjoyed the chapter. I plan on having some folk tales in this fic, but they won't be what you expect ;).


	17. Beginnings of a Legend

**Chance Encounter: Legacy of the Third Age**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything that you recognize. I'm just borrowing them without permission but with every intention of returning them, savvy?

**Smithy: **Will definitely has 'epic hero' written all over him. I'm glad you're liking the story, and thanks for the review.

**Chapter 16: Beginnings of a Legend**

Balian stared at the carving. He had expected some knowledge of the old man in Nottingham, yes, but a carving on a church wall? That hardly seemed appropriate for the protector of a pagan artefact. "Father..." he began.

"Oh, the mysterious hermit?" said the old priest. "Everyone knows about him in these parts. He's a nameless saint, that one. Performed miracles, he did; healed the sick and all. It's a pity he never left his name." The old man coughed into his fist. "'twas a long time ago. Things like that don't happen anymore."

"What else do you know about him?" asked Balian.

"Gah, it happened many years ago, my good son. Probably most of what we have now are stories made up by the locals."

"So...what are the local superstitions?" asked Jack.

"If you really must know," said the priest, eyeing the strange looking man up and down. Jack gave the old man his most charming grin. "They say he was an angel in disguise who was going up north to convert the heathens. There were still a few of them left in those days, you know."

"Up north?" said Balian. "Do you mean north of Hadrian's Wall?"

"I suppose that's what it means, but then again, these are just stories. I believe he was a saintly hermit, but no angel would go in such a disguise. He looks more like a wizard than someone who would preach the true faith," said the priest, shaking his head. "Common people get such strange ideas."

Legolas suppressed the urge to smirk. Perhaps the priest did not think much of such tales, but it was a clue, nonetheless, and it made sense that the Maia would want to be amongst people who would not burn him at the stake for being what he was. He was about to say something about that to Will, who was right next to him, when a shout interrupted the conversation.

"What was that?" said the elf.

"Tax collection, again," said the priest, shaking his head. "The townspeople are already too poor to pay tithes; that's why this church is in such a sorry state. I can only hope that God will understand."

"Don't worry, Father," said Balian, absently "He will." He wasn't really thinking about the church, or the Irminsul, for that matter. That shout, and the priest's explanation, had triggered something in him. He felt that he ought to take action and stop this blatant exploitation of the common people. The man felt a hand on his arm.

"Don't do anythin' stupid," Jack advised him. "In case you haven't noticed, we're pilgrims, and we're outnumbered."

"Well, I can't just let them commit robbery in daylight, can I?" hissed Balian.

"I don't see your reasonin', considerin' what we've done," whispered Jack, making sure the priest was not listening to them. The old man was much too busy explaining the history of Nottingham to Fulk to notice them. "It's a bit like the pot calling the kettle black, savvy?" The Frenchman looked at him blankly. Jack flapped his hands at him. "Oh, never mind," he said. "Thing is, subtlety is the key. You want the vulgar masses to keep their shinies and whatnot, but you don't want to get yourself killed, savvy?"

The shouts outside were getting louder and the wails of women were being added to them. The men were getting rather desperate and angry, and Jack had to do something before they all ended up as decapitated heads on spikes. "Tell you what," he said, waving his hands about wildly. "We hide for now, then we'll scurry over to the castle, rob the treasury, throw the treasure out to the people, instigate a revolt, and then we'll be on our merry way up to Scotland. How does that sound to you, eh?"

"That is a plan of sorts," said Achilles. Then he hurried over to one of the windows as he heard a particularly anguished wail. "What are they doing?" he demanded of the priest. "They're tearing children from their mothers!"

Elizabeth paled at the mention of such atrocities, and her hand immediately flew to the hilt of her sword. Will gripped her arm tightly to stop her from taking any rash actions, but he was barely reining his temper in. They both knew that they would fight to the death if anyone tried to take their children from them.

Barisian moved closer to Balian, and his father wrapped a protective arm about him. "They're not going to get me, are they, Papa?" he said in a small voice.

"I'm not going to let them," said Balian.

"Then you'd better hide in the back, behind the altar," said the priest. "Someone will have seen you come in here, and they'll tax everyone, even pilgrims. They take children all the time, and they won't give them back until the parents find the money. If not, well, the poor little ones are sold in far away slave markets, or so I've been told. It's a murky business. All I know is that some of them are never seen again."

"Well, these little ones _will_ be seen again," said Elizabeth viciously. "I promise you that." Even as she spoke, there was a loud knock on the church's old wooden door.

"Open up, Father!" called one of the soldiers. "I know you have pilgrims in there, and they need to pay the pilgrim tax!"

"Confound you!" shouted the priest. For someone who looked so old and frail, he had a very strong voice. "Hell has come when pilgrims, who should be given charity, are robbed instead!"

Barisian wisely ducked behind the altar, just in case those men, who did not sound very nice, were actually after him. Agnes and Heloise were already there. The boy stayed quiet and still, as Legolas had taught him. 'I'm a rock,' he kept on thinking to himself.

The door opened, and the soldiers of the High Sheriff stormed in. "Well, well," the High Sheriffsaid, looking around at the company of travellers. "You don't look much like pilgrims, but no matter. We just want to see your coins."

"We don't have any coins for you," said Balian coldly.

"Really?" said the High Sheriff, raising an eyebrow. "Then that's just too bad; we'll have to take one of the ladies until you find enough money to buy her back."

That drew a reaction from all of them. Swords and pistols were drawn, arrows were put to the strings of bows and the travellers formed a defensive circle almost instinctively. They glared at the soldiers. "No one's takin' me hostage, savvy?" said Anna-Maria. Her lip curled into a snarl.

"Hey! 'Savvy' is my word!" protested Jack. "Why is everyone stealin' it?"

"Borrowing," Elizabeth said, correcting him. "Borrowing without permission."

"If anyone so much as touches the ladies, I swear to God, I—" began Balian.

"—will have your guts for garters," finished Barbossa. "Ye better run, gents, because I be havin' no mercy fer those who be tryin' to rob me."

The old priest, meanwhile, had been edging behind the altar. These were no pilgrims, he was sure of it. What they were, he didn't know, but if they could stop the exploitation of the common people and help him recover all the missing tithes, then he was happy to help them. How he could help them was another matter.

"Fools!" said the High Sheriff. The man had lost any traces of the smile which he had been wearing. "Perhaps you should spend some time in our dungeons; that would change your mind."

"Believe me, you filthy man," said Gimli. "I won't change my mind, and I don't want to see your dungeons." He charged at them, brandishing two axes in his hands. The sudden move by the dwarf took the soldiers by surprise, and they all involuntarily took a step backwards. Then they regained control of themselves and surged forward to meet the rabble of 'pilgrims'.

Behind the altar, the priest cursed as bits of shattered tile rained down on them. "Ai! 'tis the apocalypse when men shed blood inside the House of God!" he shouted, although he was duly ignored by both his guests and the soldiers. "Is nothing sacred anymore?"

"Father, do you mean it's fine to kill outside a church then?" asked Barisian curiously.

"I don't care what they do outside the church! It's dangerous to do such things in here!" said the priest, trying to cover his head with gnarled hands. "And if they're not careful, the whole roof will—" Even as the old man spoke, a section of the roof, already weak because of rotting rafters, fell down with a loud crash, crushing a man and sending dust flying everywhere.

"Oops?" ventured Elizabeth, holding the still-smoking pistol.

"We're in for it now, Lizzie," said Jack. "I just know it." A soldier, bearing a large pouch of coins, lunged for Jack. The pirate dodged and stuck out a foot to trip him up. As the man fell, Jack snatched at the pouch, snapping the strap.

"Gotcha!" he shouted triumphantly. "Come on, my merry lads...and ladies! Let's get the hell out of here!" He raced out of the church, with the others on his heels. Barisian was being carried in Balian's arms, since his legs were much too short for him to run with enough speed. The High Sheriff and his men ran after them. People scattered to get out of the way of the charging madmen.

Already exhausted from their long journey, Agnes struggled to keep up with the others. She was still new to all of this, and she had never been very strong. She tripped up over her skirts and fell. In an instant, a hand closed around her arm, and she was hauled to her feet. In her fear, she screamed, stopping the rest of her companions in their tracks.

"Not again!" muttered Jack. "I'm sick of rescuing distressin' damsels!"

"Now, how about you all follow me," said the High Sheriff. The grin was back, more malicious than ever. "If not, well, you'll see this pretty wench hang, and I don't think you'd like that, would you?"

Barisian's eyes widened as his father let loose the largest torrent of cuss words he had ever heard. He had never known that Balian was that accomplished. He didn't know what the bad man meant, but he guessed it was bad, or else his father wouldn't be so angry.

"If you think we're going to capitulate, then you can think again," said Legolas, pushing himself in front of Balian. The man wore his emotions on his sleeve, and being too easy to read was never good in situations like these. The elf schooled his face into an emotionless mask, and looked at the High Sheriff steadily. He knew that his gaze unnerved most men who did not know him, and even some who did. Legolas drew his bow and pointed the arrow at the man's head. "What do you think will be quicker? Can you hang the wench before I shoot you in the head?"

"You wouldn't dare," said the High Sheriff. "You shoot me, and you and your friends will be cut down into bloody pieces. You won't even have a body to bury."

"Perhaps not, but I have been called mad by many," said Legolas, looking as if he was getting ready to shoot. Unbeknownst to everyone else, Jack and Will had clambered up onto the rooftops, waiting for the opportune moment. Of course, the elf had seen them, and all Legolas was doing was creating a diversion for them.

"What do you think you're doing, lad?" hissed Gimli. "We want the girl back, and not in pieces!"

"Quiet," said Legolas. Gimli was rather taken aback by that cold tone. He had not heard it directed at him before. What had gotten into Legolas? This was not his friend.

Out of the corner of his eye, Legolas could see that Jack had gotten his hands on a clothes line. The pirate had secured the rope to the roof somehow. He winked down at the elf, and Legolas smiled. They were going to give the people of Nottingham something to remember them by.

"So, do I shoot, or do I not?" Legolas asked of the High Sheriff. Before the man could answer or demand as to what he meant by that, Jack was swinging down from the rooftops. He snatched Agnes from her captors and swept her up as he swung towards the other side. Luck was with the pirate, for he managed to land safely on the balcony of a house.

The High Sheriff roared in anger when he realized that he'd been tricked. "Get them!" he shouted to his men. "They're all going to hang!"

Legolas let loose his arrow, and it nicked the High Sheriff's ear. However, that had not been what he had been aiming for.

"You missed!" said Gimli. "The great pointy-eared elvish princeling missed! I've got to tell the world!"

"Oh, be quiet!" said Legolas. "He moved!"

"You could hardly expect him to stay still so that your arrow can hit his eye!" said the dwarf.

Legolas might have missed, but Will Turner was determined not to repeat that mistake. Taking hold of the rope which Jack had just used to swing onto the balcony on the other side of the street, he swung down and let go at the critical moment. His feet connected with the High Sheriff's side and the two men fell to the ground in a heap.

Meanwhile, Jack and Agnes had run out of the house, having been chased out by a distraught housewife waving a broom. "Jesus! You would've thought I was a robber by the way she reacted!" said Jack. "You all right, lass?" Agnes nodded, still in shock. "Right. You stay hidden and when you see us runnin', try to keep up." With that, the pirate rejoined his companions and threw himself wholeheartedly into the skirmish on the streets. It was a bit too messy for his liking, but there were profits to be had.

Achilles punched a man in the jaw and sent him flying, after having first taken the man's bag of ill gotten gains. The Greek had no use for so much money, but he was sure that the townspeople wouldn't mind getting their belongings back. He scattered the coins on the street. Within moments, the chaotic scene had grown as ordinary men and women tried to gather as many coins as they could.

Will drove his knee into the High Sheriff's stomach. The layer of fat shielded the man from damage, but the young captain still managed to drive the breath from his lungs. That was all the time he needed to snatch the money and the keys to the dungeons from the High Sheriff's belt. The former blacksmith was not done with the man yet. He hoisted the corrupt official to his feet and hooked his arm around the man's throat. "Stop!" he hollered. "Or I kill this man!"

"Stop!" cried the sheriff. "Drop your arms! Listen to him!"

"That's much better," said Will. "I like it when people cooperate with me." He shook the keys so that the man could hear them clinking against each other. "Now, milord, you will take my men and me to the dungeons and the treasury."

"Good one, boy," said Barbossa as Will passed him, still holding the High Sheriff hostage. The younger man grinned. It wasn't often that Barbossa gave out praise, and he was very pleased by that comment indeed. Elizabeth was beaming with pride, while Barisian was staring at him in admiration.

The ranks of soldiers and citizens parted to let the High Sheriff and his captor through. The castle steps were dark and slick with water. First, they descended down into the dungeons. The musty odour almost made Elizabeth step back, but she forced herself to ignore it. Showing weakness was not an option.

Prisoners rushed to the bars of their cells, stretching out their hands. Will tossed the keys to Jack, who began unlocking every door. "I hope we don't free any murderers," Balian muttered to Legolas.

"This entire place is full of murderers, my friend," said the elf. "Most of them are running free."

Men, women and children poured out like water rushing from a broken dam. Will kept a tight grip on the High Sheriff. If he lost his hold on the man, then they were probably all going to die. Bodies jostled against one another as the newly freed prisoners rushed to the doors. "Now, milord," Will said. "The treasury."

"You can't do that!" said the man in a strangled voice. "That's going to the king!"

"I don't give a bloody damn who it's supposed to go to!" growled the pirate. "Take me to the treasury, or by God, I swear I'll take a piece of you!"

Elizabeth stuffed her fist into her mouth to stop herself from laughing. Was Will learning to be as dramatic as Jack? To be fair, he was putting on a rather convincing act, but anyone who knew him would know that he was bluffing.

"Do you really think the money's going to the king?" asked Jack as they followed Will and his hostage. He dangled the ring of keys from his finger, swinging them around.

"Some of it," said Achilles. "But not all. You're not going to take some, are you?"

"Why not? They're ill-gotten gains, and after all this trouble, I deserve some compensation, don't you think? Consider it commission. Besides, we're going to need money if we're going to find you-know-what."

The door of the treasury opened with a loud groan; the hinges of the door needed oiling, or perhaps they had been left to rust on purpose. The guards would know if someone was trying to steal the contents. However, no one could stop Jack from stuffing his pockets with glee. This little ill-planned venture was becoming a lot more profitable than he had expected.

Gimli was also hauling out sacks of coins, but he was less interested in taking them for himself. He passed the sacks to Legolas, who promptly emptied them over the fortress' walls, so that it seemed as if riches were showering down from the heavens. Gold, silver and copper spilled onto the ground. He flung more handfuls of coins further.

The people of Nottingham cheered as they gathered up the coins, using anything they could, ranging from aprons to buckets which had once held slops for the pigs. The cheers grew louder when Will came out, still holding the High Sheriff hostage.

"Who the hell are you?" demanded the man. Will grinned.

"Robin Hood," he said. "Remember that name." With that, he shoved the man into the crowd. They had already tarried too long in Nottingham; if they didn't hurry, Ambrosius might just catch up with them. Pushing through the throngs of people, the company of travellers made their escape.

It wasn't until they were far from Nottingham that Will realized something. "Dear God," he said. "I think I might have sown the seed for the legend!"

* * *

Cold wind tore at their clothes. Agnes clutched at her muddy cloak tightly. Crossing the Alps had been bad, but if it was possible, this was even worse. With one half-frozen hand, she brushed her tangled hair out of her face. The day was growing darker; soon, Legolas would be telling them to settle down for the night. She would be glad for the rest.

In contrast, Heloise seemed to be rather happy about something. Agnes had caught her staring at Fulk, and she was quite certain that her maid had fallen in love. 'With a former Inquisitor?' she thought. Weren't they supposed to be celibate? Then again, he had stopped serving Rome, so perhaps he was free to marry.

"This country is wondrously beautiful," said Heloise to her mistress. "It is so green and lush!"

"And wet," said Agnes flatly. "I don't even remember what being dry feels like." She jumped over a muddy puddle. When she got out of this mess, she swore she would never wear brown again. She'd seen enough of the colour during this journey to Scotland.

"But you cannot say that this isn't more exciting that our lives back home," said the other girl.

"I can live without the excitement, Heloise."

Legolas turned back and grinned. "Milady, the day you met Balian was the day you forfeited all claims to a boring life," he said. Agnes had hardly ever seen him smile before, and at any rate, she found that it was impossible to get used to his ethereal beauty. She simply smiled nervously at him and lowered her eyes, hoping he would not have noticed her furious blush. Even her ears were hot, and this was a cold country.

"And the day I met you was the day I lost my right to a peaceful life," retorted Balian.

"You have to admit that your life has never been peaceful," said the elf. "Besides, I was not the one who told you that you had to shoot the king of England."

"I didn't shoot Richard," said Balian. "I shot the fireworks and blew up a street in Tripoli."

"That's worse," said Will.

"When I grow up, I'm going to blow up a palace and commandeer a fleet," declared Barisian, waving a stick around and pretending that it was a sword. "And I will be the most fearsome pirate in the Me-di-di-di-ter-raining!"

"Not if I have anything to say about it," said Balian. "And Barisian, it's _Mediterranean_." When this was all over, he really was going to find the boy a tutor. Barisian needed lessons, and not just in reading and writing.

"I'm sure he'll turn out fine," said Paris. "With a father like you, and us to keep an eye on him, he will be a paragon of virtue."

"Or a perfect pirate," said Balian. "Somehow, he seems impervious to what I teach him."

"You need to be stricter, Balian," said Achilles. "I haven't got a son of my own, but I did bring up Patroclus. You go soft on them, and they end up like Paris here." The Greek simply couldn't help it; this was the perfect chance to annoy Paris.

"Or worse, they end up rude and uncivilized like the Greek," retorted the Trojan.

"Be quiet, you two," said Briseis. "Can't you stop arguing just for one moment?"

Achilles raised an eyebrow at his wife. "Now, what would be the fun in that?" he asked. "It is all just good sport, isn't that right, Paris?"

"There is no sport in bantering with someone who has sand for brains," said Paris smoothly. "I feel guilty about taking on someone with a disadvantage."

"Now you know how I feel," said Jack, breaking up the tension. "Bantering with any of you is not much fun at all." They all turned to him, some of them enraged, others exasperated. Jack simply shrugged. "Can we stop for the night now? It's gettin' dark, and all these coins are bloody heavy. I'm gonna get holes in me pockets, savvy?"

* * *

Legolas breathed in the cold wet air and savoured the silence of the night. The others were back at their little camp. He was not worried, for Achilles was keeping watch. He had no doubt that the Greek would be diligent. The elf leapt over a mossy rock and landed soundlessly on the wet turf. A few stars glittered in the gaps between the clouds. At least it was not raining.

A silhouette of something big loomed in the distance, and the elf slowly made his way towards it. There was no movement to be seen. As he drew closer, he could make out the distinct shapes of rocks which stood up as if they were the remains of some race of giants. They had been put there for a purpose. Many of them had fallen over, but enough of them stood for the elf to tell that they had been arranged in a circle.

Curiosity drew him closer. What was this? He had never seen anything like it before. It was not the foundations of a building, for there was no evidence of walls. Soon, he found himself within the stone circle and contemplating this strange monument, for that was what he had deemed it was. Lichen covered the stones. They were old, perhaps even older than he was. Ever since he had arrived in this world full of creatures which lived fast and died young, he had felt ancient, even though he was still young by his people's standards.

The elf placed a hand against the weathered surface of one of the stones, willing it to tell him its story, even though it was not customary for him to go to stones to seek out knowledge. However, the trees in this world were too young, and they could tell him nothing. He could hear their faint song, and even though he did not understand it, it gave him some comfort. There, within the stone circle, he lost track of time, until voices shook him out of his reverie. Someone was approaching. The elf quickly ducked behind one of the fallen stones. He should not have stayed so long. The sky was beginning to grow lighter. Soon it would be dawn, and his friends would be rather worried for his safety.

Hooded figures drew closer to the stone circle. Each of them carried a lamp. Their faces were hidden within the shadows of their cloaks, and their language was odd, although it sounded beautiful, like the song of the stones. There was some greater power at work here. 'Perhaps this is a sacred place,' thought Legolas. What would these men do if they found him here?

One of the men held up a hand, and the voices stopped. He spoke to the others in a hushed whisper, as if he was afraid. And then he held up his arms to the sky and began to intone something. Legolas guessed that it was a prayer of sorts, but he wasn't sure. He peeked out from his hiding place. These people seemed harmless enough. They did not carry any weapons on them, unless their staffs could be counted as weapons. It did not seem right to remain hiding. The elf stepped out, his bow in his hand and ready to fight should there be any need to do so.

There was a gasp, and some of the men fell to their knees as if they feared him. He was surprised; he knew he inspired awe in men who had never seen an elf before, but he had not thought that he would be able to frighten someone by just standing there.

The one who had been praying now stepped towards the elf, placing his hand against his heart and bowing to him, speaking very softly.

"I am sorry," said Legolas. "I don't understand you." As soon as the words left his mouth, he felt like a fool. If they had no language in common, then what he had said would not have made any sense anyway, so why had he said it?

"You speak the tongue of the Christians?" asked the man. "That is odd. I would have thought that the _Fae_ would have stayed clear of them."

"Fae?" said Legolas. "I beg your pardon?"

"Surely you are one of the immortal folk?" said the man, removing the hood from his head. His hair was long and dark, as was his beard.

"Yes," said Legolas, rather taken aback by this. "How do you know?" From what he had seen, elves had not lived in this world, so how would these people know about the immortal races?

"It is not so hard to tell," said the man. "We druids know, but our knowledge is quickly becoming forgotten. The _Fae_used to walk amongst us, but now they remain hidden; the world has forgotten them, and they see no purpose in leaving their otherworldly abodes. What brings you out here on this night, milord?"

Would they believe him if he said he was looking for a pagan artefact, and that he was travelling with a group of rowdy men? "I search for a treasure," he said. "It is one of great value, and possibly guarded by an old man with a staff and a pointed hat. The men of Rome are after it, and if this world is to be safe, then they must never find it."

"I have heard of such an old man," said the druid. "No one knows what he really is, or where he is, but it is said that he is sometimes seen at night, wandering over the hills. There are many stories. But surely you know of them?"

"Not at all," said Legolas. He glanced up at the sky. Golden rays of sun had spilled over the horizon. The others would be wondering where he was. The last thing he needed was for them to think that he had somehow gotten into trouble. That little story about him and the Haradrim king's concubine was more than enough. "I must return to my camp, or else my companions will be worried."

"Your camp, milord?" asked the druid curiously. He had always wanted to see how the _Fae_ lived, even though he knew it could be dangerous for a mortal to do so. However, he had heard so many stories about the wonders of the immortal folk, and the temptation was too great.

"One must make camp during the night when travelling in the wild," said Legolas. "That is the way of your kind as well, is it not? They will be taking the morning meal. I'm afraid the food is bland, but you are most welcome to join us."

The head druid turned to his companions, and there was a heated discussion before he spoke to Legolas again. "I accept your offer, milord," he said, bowing low. The group of druids followed the elf back to where the others were.

"Pray, what is your name?" asked Legolas as they trudged over the grass, which was wet with morning dew. "I must call you something."

"They call me Cadogan, milord," said the druid. "My real name, I shall not divulge, for a name is something which can be used against a man. I hope you do not take offence."

"As long as I do not have to introduce you as 'Man', then it is enough," said Legolas.

Cadogan bowed again. Legolas felt that he seemed to be doing that far too much. As a prince, he was used to respect, but even his subjects did not revere him as much as this man did. Perhaps bowing was commonplace in this country.

Smoke rose from the merry little campfire which Gimli had lit. A hare was roasting on a spit above the flames, and everyone was paying too much attention to the browning meat to notice the approach of Legolas and his new acquaintances until they were upon them.

"Is that it?" he asked, looking at the single roasting hare. It was not particularly meaty; how would it feed all of them.

"That's what I said," said Jack. "Paris, aren't you going to glare at him?"

The Trojan prince did just that. "You cannot say anything, Legolas," he said. "It was not my turn to hunt for our morning meal, and you had disappeared. There wasn't enough time to find more."

The druids stood back as the argument escalated. Cadogan could only stare at these strangers. They were odd, yes, but there was no doubt that they were men. Why would an immortal travel with men?

"Gentlemen!" interrupted Elizabeth. "In case you haven't noticed, we have an audience. Would anyone care to explain why these people are here?"

All eyes turned to the druids. "They found me near the stone circle," said Legolas, indicating the general direction of the strange monument with his hand. "And I think they can tell us something that we need to know."

* * *

There was something on the air. Asatarë could sense it. Yes, he could feel the presence of one of the Eldar; a young one, but a Firstborn nonetheless. His abilities were not what they had been in Aman, but he could still tell that something great was about to happen. Perhaps he would be able to go home soon, after all these years. The Maia had forgotten what the white shores of Valinor looked like.

In the forest canopy above him, a magpie called.

* * *

**A/N: **I would just like to say that I know very little about druids, and my research didn't tell me much. I just assumed there would be some left in the north of the British Isles during the twelfth century, as there were still pagan tribes living along the Baltic shores.


	18. The Summoning

**Chance Encounter: Legacy of the Third Age**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything that you recognize; I'm just borrowing them without permission but with every intention of returning them after I'm done, savvy?

**Chapter 17: The Summoning**

Agnes regarded the solemn cloaked men with a sense of fear and awe. These people existed only in the oldest tales; she felt as if she had been sucked into one of the pagan legends, and half expected to see dragons flying across the sky next. Unconsciously, she drew closer to Balian, and he caught her hand and gave it a comforting squeeze, telling her that no harm would come to her. His solid presence made her feel a little more secure. Still, she could not help but feel wary when one of the strangers stepped forward and bowed. "We are druids," he said. "My name is Cadogan. These are my brethren; we are amongst the last of our kind in this part of the Sacred Isles."

"And...?" said Jack.

Cadogan raised an eyebrow at the pirate, who looked like no other man he had ever seen. And he had thought that the Christian monks, with their shaved heads and their single crucified god, were odd. Then again, if a man travelled with one of the _Fae_, he had to be unusual in some way. "Lord Legolas believes that we know something of importance to you," he said.

"Would you care to tell us what it is that the elf-boy said would be important?" said Jack. Legolas glared at him, but the pirate simply shrugged. He was used to it.

The druid was rather taken aback by the man's tone. Didn't he have any respect for the immortal folk? They were holy, and they knew secrets which the gods had kept hidden from mankind. The least any man could do was to show some reverence for their wisdom and knowledge. This man spoke as if the immortal lord was simply another man, and a younger one at that. "He spoke of an old man with a pointed hat..." began Cadogan. "The old man is entrenched in our law. It is said that he possesses great powers and he can command the winds. Some say he is one of the _Fae_. Others say he is a fallen god."

"Where is he?" asked Balian.

"We do not know," said Cadogan. "He has not been seen for many a year. It is said that he sometimes appears during the gatherings of the Druidic Council, but ever since the Christians came from over the sea, we have not summoned such a gathering, as it was too dangerous."

"We need to find that old man," said Balian. "He guards something of great importance, and if the agents of Rome find it before we do, it will be the end of your way of life, and our way of life. The entire world will be covered in darkness, and there will be no hope left for mankind."

Legolas had to raise an eyebrow at that. He had not thought that the situation was that dire, and the elf was certain that Balian was exaggerating. However, he seemed to genuinely believe that was what would happen should Ambrosius get the Irminsul and if it made the druids cooperate with them, then, well, who was he to argue? He sat down next to the dying campfire and tore a piece of tough meat off the gangly roasted hare. Elves did not need much sustenance, but they still needed to eat. He grimaced as he bit into the stringy meat. Someone had left it to cook for too long, and it now as dry and tasteless as bark. He forced himself to swallow it. One could not be too selective when living out in the wild. Perhaps this was a reminder that he should get back to camp in time to hunt for the morning meal.

"If there is the need, then we can summon a gathering of the Druidic Council to attract him," said Cadogan, who was clearly alarmed by Balian's revelation. "It will be _Alban Arthuan_ in eight days, and that is a most auspicious day for such a gathering."

"El-ban Ar-thoo-wan?" said Balian, trying very hard to pronounce the term correctly, and mangling most of the pronunciation.

"Yule," said Cadogan with a smile. "Better known to you as Winter Solstice, I believe?"

"Christmas!" Barisian blurted out enthusiastically, before he could stop himself. He loved Christmas; the snow, the gifts, the bonfires, the music, the food... The only thing he didn't like was mass, but everything else made up for it.

"I be thinkin' that it be hard for people who do not believe in Christ to celebrate His birth, lad," said Barbossa, winking as Barisian's face fell. "Don't worry yerself. I be certain yer Da will find some way to make it special." And if Balian was too busy, well, Barbossa could hardly let one of his most diligent pupils be disappointed, could he?

"We do not celebrate the birth of the Christian god," said Cadogan solemnly, although he was smiling at Barisian. "However, we do celebrate Winter Solstice, and if there is to be a gathering of druids, then the celebrations would be very great indeed."

Barisian clapped his hands in delight. It all sounded very exciting to a boy of six—almost seven; he was celebrating Christmas without mass, and if he was lucky, he might get to blow up something.

"How do you summon the druidic council?" asked Elizabeth. "If you are in hiding all over the British Isles, then it would certainly take more than ten days to organize a meeting and get to the meeting place."

"Lady, we have our ways," said Cadogan calmly. He was used to doubt, now that the people no longer believed in the old way of life. "Our powers have greatly diminished over the years and much knowledge has been lost, but there are some things which a druid always remembers. The Song of Summoning is one of them."

"Like the song of the Brethren Court," whispered Will. He hadn't been able to learn it, for music had never been his strong point, but Elizabeth knew it back to front. He still wasn't sure how it worked, but it had been more than efficient in summoning all the pirates to Shipwreck Cove.

"How long will it take?" asked Jack.

"Five days, perhaps six," said Cadogan. "We might be scattered, but some still have the power to travel more quickly than any mortal. The druids of Eire will not come, for they are separated from us by the sea. However, if he intends to show himself, then the old man will come to this gathering. If not, then it means he is either dead, or he wants to remain hidden. In that case, you won't be able to find him, no matter how hard you try."

"I'm sure that Rome will have something to say about that," muttered Anna-Maria. "They've managed to find everything that they wanted to find."

* * *

The company followed the druids to the stone circle which Legolas had stumbled upon during his night-time wanderings. In the daylight, it no longer looked so intimidating, but it was impressive nonetheless.

"Just how did people build these things?" asked Will, inspecting the towering stones.

"The old ways have been lost, and the _Fae_ have left us." said Cadogan. "We will never know exactly how it was done." He bowed. "Now, if you will excuse us; the Summoning is an ancient secret of ours, and it would not do for someone to discover it and use it to trap us, so we would rather that strangers did not hear it."

"Fair enough," said Jack, backing away. "I don't like these stones much anyway; looks as if they can topple over and squash you into a heap of bloody jelly, if you get my meanin'."

The others also left the druids to it and went off in search of a better breakfast. There wasn't anything they could do anyway; it was best just to leave the druids to their spell weaving. Agnes picked a few blades of grass and twisted them between her fingers nervously while she waited for the hunters to return. The oddness of this entire affair was making her very nervous now. What if those druids were summoning demons?

"To tell you the truth, milady, I find this all very eerie," Heloise whispered to her mistress as she sat down beside her on the still damp grass. "All this magic and spells and all that. I'd thought that the Church had gotten rid of it."

"Apparently not," said Agnes. "I know I chose this, but I can't help but feel that I chose wrongly, especially now that I'm embroiled in all this pagan business, and I feel as if I'm hindering them."

"You've made your choice now, and there's no going back," said Heloise. "It was your idea to go gallivanting all over Europe after Lord Balian." She glanced at Fulk, who stood watch some distance away, a brooding expression on his face. "Besides, you have to say it's been better than you'd expected."

"You're only saying that because of him," said Agnes, jerking her head in the broad-backed Norman's direction.

"Ach, what are you saying?" said the maid, blushing. "I don't talk to him, and he doesn't talk to me. I just think he's..."

"What? Handsome? Heroic?" Agnes grinned; she hadn't remembered ever doing that before. Grinning was not considered a ladylike thing. A lady only ever smiled benevolently, or else she wept and wrung her hands. That seemed to be what had been expected of her anyway. Of course, she'd done a lot of scowling in her time.

"Well, he is a fine man, to come and help us and all that," said Heloise, wondering if she should ignore her mistress from now on. That did not seem to be the right thing to do to one's mistress, but she'd seen pirates teasing princes and one certain little boy pulling faces at his father; protocol did not seem to be a strong point of these people. Still, it felt wrong. Years of training had ingrained itself into her mind. The nobility were to be respected.

Elizabeth, who had been sitting idly against a tree, now turned to the two younger women and smiled knowingly. "Surely you think he's a fine man in more ways than one?" she said, making sure that Fulk did not hear them. He was too busy looking for threats to notice that others were talking about him behind his back. Or, he was too well trained to show that he knew. Elizabeth opted for the former.

"I don't know what you're saying, Madame," said Heloise.

"No, of course you don't," said Elizabeth. The maid's blush deepened, and she was very relieved when she heard the men returning. At least their return would mean some reprieve from the relentless questioning.

"Of all the coneys in the world, you had to find the stringiest and oldest one for our breakfast," she heard Jack saying to Paris. Heloise looked up to find the pirate gesticulating in his wildly exaggerated manner, as usual. In his hands, he held two plump young rabbits.

"I have one point of contention," said Paris, pointing at the furry corpses. "Those are rabbits. The thing I shot this morning was hare."

"So? Couldn't you have shot a rabbit instead?" asked Achilles, who always enjoyed teasing Paris. He loved watching the prince get so riled that the skin around his mouth would pale. Although, now that Paris had been out in the wild for so long, he'd grown something akin to a beard, and the effect was not as pronounced.

"Well, I didn't see one, did I? And someone was supposed to fetch breakfast, only he didn't."

"I do not want to get involved in this," said Legolas. "Besides, I shot these two."

"You mean you shot one, and someone pounced on another, stunned it so that it lay still, and then you shot it?" asked Gimli, smirking. He had been the one who had pounced on the rabbit. So had Will, and the young pirate was probably now sporting an impressive bruise somewhere on his body.

"And someone else gets to reap the injuries while you reap the praise," said Will, wincing. Elizabeth would _not_ be pleased. Or maybe she would enjoy the chance to play nursemaid to him again.

"Mushrooms are much safer fare," said Balian, dangling a full bag in his hand. "And just as tasty."

"If you're not careful, you'll start sprouting hair on your feet," said Legolas.

"Hobbits are brave and astounding people. There is nothing wrong with being one."

"You mean, except for the three-foot-eight part?"

"There is nothing wrong with being shorter than six foot!" insisted Gimli.

"Of course not, but being shorter than five foot is..." Legolas trailed off and grinned at his incensed dwarven friend.

"I helped to pick a lot of the mushrooms," piped up Barisian. "I found them, didn't I, Papa?"

"That you did," said Balian, ruffling his son's hair and laughing. "Your wife will not have to worry about getting enough to eat, will she?"

"I told you! I'm not getting married!"

Legolas raised an eyebrow at Balian. "You men all say that at some point in your life, don't you?"

"Uh...yes," said Balian, remembering how he had abhorred the idea of living with a girl when he had been his son's age.

"I did not," said Will.

The bantering went on as the men, elf and dwarf settled down around the remains of the campfire. Agnes got up and took the rabbit corpses from them, glad for something to keep her mind from wandering to what was going on inside the stone circle.

As she gutted the rabbits with a knife which she had borrowed from Legolas, she could hear the druids' unearthly song being carried on the wind, although the distance made it difficult to determine the tune. The music seemed to touch her very soul, and it took her back to a time when there were stone circles everywhere, not just on these islands, but on the mainland as well. She saw the spirit creatures roaming freely across the land, mingling with mortals, teaching them how to cultivate the soil and harvest the fruits of the earth. Ethereal beings danced in glades beneath a silver sliver of moon, and little creatures with large pointed ears pranced about their feet, playing miniscule lutes and trumpets. Hooded men marched solemnly into one of those giant stone circles as the sun was rising, bathing everything in golden light. Each of them seemed to glow from within. Agnes felt herself being drawn into the vision. It was as if she could enter into it if she reached out enough.

"Agnes?"

Balian's voice drew her out of her reverie, and she shook her head to try and rid herself of the last traces of the vision. It was a dangerous thing, to be tempted by unknown otherworldly powers. She shivered, glad that the druids had insisted that they stayed far away while they wove their unnatural spells. If she could feel the effects this strongly, then how would it affect anyone at whom the spells were directed?

Balian repeated her name, and she could hear his concern. She looked up. "Are you all right?" he asked. As he said it, she became aware that everyone around her had fallen silent, and they were all staring at her.

"I...I'm fine," she stammered, her face growing hot. "It's just..." She glanced in the direction of the druids. They were still singing. "Do you feel it?"

"I do," said Balian. "Is it making you uncomfortable?"

Agnes nodded reluctantly; she didn't want to seem weak, but the druids were frightening her.

"It'll always be odd to see these things," said Anna-Maria. "But magic's harmless if ya don't get on the wrong side of it."

"Too right," said Jack. "Trust me, I know this from experience, luv."

* * *

Smoke rose from the city, as if there had been besieged. With much trepidation, Ambrosius rode into Nottingham. He knew very little about the internal politics of Britain, and the last thing he wanted was to actually become in mediating for two squabbling English lords or worse, become embroiled in the actual siege itself. That would only be a waste of time.

He was much relieved when he saw Richard's standard of the rearing golden lion on a red background. If Richard was here, then perhaps the situation would not be so dire. After all, Christendom's most famous crusader would know how to deal with his own subjects, surely.

"What happened here?" he asked a passing soldier.

"Someone instigated a revolt," said the man in such accented Latin that he was barely understandable. "It's all over now, and the king is questioning the prisoners to see who actually started it. It's said that whoever did it took a lot of money."

That sounded a lot like something which Balian would do, and it was well known that there was no lost love between Christendom's most famous crusader and its most infamous one. "Thank you," said Ambrosius, giving the man a quick blessing.

"Where to now?" said Paul, urging his horse forward so that he was riding beside the cardinal. "It seems that the clues end here. We've been to almost every stone circle in England, and we are no closer to them than we had been before."

"This, my good man, is a clue," said Ambrosius, sweeping his hand in a wide arc to indicate the chaos that was Nottingham. "Someone must have heard something." As he spoke, the cardinal noticed a large man with a head of flaming red hair riding towards him.

"Your Eminence," said Richard. "What brings you to Nottingham? I thought you were riding after heretics."

"I was on their trail when I stumbled upon this city, Your Majesty," said Ambrosius. "Do you have any idea who did this?"

The English king snorted. "That imbecile insists that it was someone called 'Robin Hood'," he said. "I insist that he has been tricked."

"And I agree with you," said Ambrosius. "This has 'Ibelin' written all over it."

"I'm waiting for someone to fetch the priest," said Richard. "The High Sheriff, who won't be High Sheriff for long, has said that he sheltered the 'pilgrims' who started this entire sorry mess."

A priest? This was becoming a lot more interesting than Ambrosius had thought. Of all the people Ibelin would seek out, why would he find a priest? Before he could think of all the possible reasons, an old man in a cowl hobbled up and bowed, firstly to the cardinal, and then to the king. "Milords," he said. "You summoned me?"

"Indeed," said Richard, spurring his horse forwards until he almost rode the old man down. "Tell me, who were those men whom you sheltered?"

"They did not say," said the priest.

"They must have said something to you," said Ambrosius.

"Indeed, they did, but mostly they asked about the mysterious saintly hermit," said the priest. He scowled. "And then that son of the devil came and demanded taxes, and the whole church's roof fell in."

"What mysterious hermit?" demanded Ambrosius. "Show me." The priest led the cardinal and the Inquisitors to the ruined church. The dust had settled, revealing the extent of the damage. Nottingham definitely needed a new church. The priest led them over to the church's stone wall and pointed at a carving. The years had smoothed away the detail, but it was clear that the carving depicted an old man with a long beard, a staff and a pointed hat.

"God save me!" gasped Paul, making the sign of the cross. "You have a carving of a pagan on your church?"

"This is no pagan!" insisted the priest. "This is the saintly hermit! He healed the sick and performed miracles. Local superstition has it that he went up north to convert pagans!"

"Up north?" said Ambrosius, ignoring the sputtering Paul. "Where exactly in the north?"

"It's just a local superstition," said the priest. "But the other men seemed to think that 'north' meant north of Hadrian's Wall."

"Scotland," said Ambrosius. That was where they had to go, and now that they had Richard with them, so much the better. He could tell that the King of England was eager to be rid of these heretics; it did very little for the Crusader King's reputation if he could fight the infidels in the east, but not in his own country.

Richard smiled grimly when Ambrosius related to him what the old priest had said. "I've always wanted to tame Scotland," said the Angevin King. "Perhaps now is the chance."

* * *

He heard the familiar cadences on the air; the music was calling to him, telling him everything that he needed to know about the impending gathering. The Summoning had not been sung for many centuries. Did the arrival of the Firstborn have anything to do with the gathering of the druidic council? Asatarë was curious, but he was also cautious. The last gathering had ended in disaster, and most of the druids had been wiped out; the rest had gone into self imposed exile after that, isolating themselves from the world, hiding from those whom they had once guided.

No matter, he would go and see what was happening this time. After all, if there was a Firstborn in attendance, then this gathering would be like no other.

* * *

The song faded around midday, and the world seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. It wasn't that the song was a terrible thing, but the intensity was difficult to endure for a long period of time. "So, all the other druids are going to come here?" said Paris. He kept on glancing at the stone circle. The druids had not moved, as if all their strength had been drained, and like the trees, they were standing still in the pale sunlight to try and gain energy from it.

"I certainly hope so," said Balian. "I'm quite sick of travelling."

"You're not the only one," said Gimli. "Especially since the pointy-ear does not seem to understand the fact that we mortals _cannot_ walk day and night while living only on water and stringy hare."

"If anyone says anything about my hare again..." began Paris.

"What, you'll inflict another one on us?" said Will. "I don't think I can stand more of that meat."

"So stop complaining about it," retorted Paris. "If you want to complain, complain to Legolas. His absence was the reason that _I_ had to go out and look for stringy hare."

"There is no fun in complaining to someone who does not get riled at your complaints," said Achilles, grinning. He had not expected to have allies, but he was certainly not complaining.

"Oh, shut it," grumbled Paris, knowing that he was outnumbered, and all because of that bloody hare. Perhaps next time he would not hunt at all; let them all go hungry and see who would complain about his hares, stringy or otherwise.

"The best advice, Paris, is to ignore them as I do," said Legolas from his vantage point in the branches above them. "They'll find a new victim soon enough. Of course, it takes years of practise, and young mortals can hardly be expected to master the technique."

As the elf had intended, this led to yet another argument as the men and dwarf all protested that they were not 'young' at all.

* * *

Scotland was every bit as desolate as Ambrosius had imagined it to be. The cold wind whipped his robes about, and the rain lashed his face, making it almost impossible to see anything, let alone where he was going. "Your Eminence!" he heard Richard call out. "We won't get anywhere in this cursed weather!"

"We must move on!" Ambrosius shouted back. "Every moment we tarry gives them an advantage! Who knows what those heretics might do with their dark powers?" Dark powers were a bit farfetched, but hadn't Balian done something in Tripoli which caused chaos for three days? The explosion in Rome had been no accident either.

Richard muttered some curses, but the sound of the storm drowned out whatever he was saying. Nature had very little respect for kings of men. He was beginning to understand why the Romans could not subdue the lands north of Hadrian's Wall. It seemed as if the land itself was against anyone who sought to exert dominion over it. There were old powers at work here, he was certain. 'The old powers are nothing compared to the might of God,' he told himself, but he found his thoughts lacking in conviction. It did not seem as if the Almighty was on his side at the moment.

* * *

Achilles chewed on yet another sour berry and made a face. Food was scarce in this cold place, and it was always wet. He missed his native Greece, its warm climate and its succulent olives. They'd been here for three days, simply waiting, and each day they tarried, the Roman wolves were probably getting closer and closer to where they were. The Greek warrior was becoming impatient, and he wasn't the only one.

"I knew it wasn't going to work," said Fulk, setting down his armful of wet firewood. His clothes were soaked, and his hair was plastered against his head. "This is all pagan superstitious nonsense."

"Have a bit of patience," Legolas called down from the treetops. "I felt the power of the call; I'm sure the druids will come."

"We don't care if the druids come or not," said Jack, wringing out his brightly coloured, if dirty, sash. "We care about the old fella with the pointy hat and the treasure chest!"

"And this is the only way to find him," said Balian, trying to shield his son from the rain and failing miserably. Water ran down his face in rivulets and dripped from the end of his nose.

The discussion was becoming heated when Legolas gave a long piercing whistle. "Look," he said, pointing into the distance. The men looked at the direction in which the elf was pointing, but they could see very little. The rain was veiling their vision. Even the tall standing stones were only faint silhouettes. And then they felt the ancient power surging up from the land and through their bones. The druids were singing again. This time, it was not a Summoning, but a Welcome.

The druidic gathering had started.

* * *

**A/N:** I made up all the stuff about druids and music, so don't try and use it for an assignment or anything like that. Same with the parts of the story about the Church and Richard. As far as I know, Richard didn't care about Scotland very much, and there was not a revolt like that at Nottingham.


	19. The Druids

**Chance Encounter: Legacy of the Third Age**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything that you recognize. I'm just borrowing them without permission, and with every intention of returning them when I'm done.

**Chapter 18: The Druids**

Barisian knew that staring was considered rude, but he could not help himself. How on earth could anyone have such a long white beard? The boy's eyes followed the beard until they reached the face of the old druid to whom the facial hair belonged. The druid murmured a greeting to him. The child remembered his manners in time and muttered a 'bonjour' before scampering back to his father. These people made him nervous. He remembered the stories of warlocks and sorcerers who stole children from their beds while they slept. Balian had insisted that not all old men with long beards were evil wizards, but Barisian did not believe his father. Adults thought they knew everything, but more often than not, they knew very little.

In his hurry, he bumped into Agnes, making her lose her balance and topple to the ground. "Ow," she complained. "Am I really that invisible?" The last part was said in jest. She didn't really mind the accident all that much, but Barisian's expression was endearing. She found that she had grown very fond of that boy. 'As I learned to be very fond of his father,' she thought.

"Sorry," said Barisian. "I just didn't wanna stay behind, y'know. It's scary with all those strange men. Did you see their beards? They were very long and very white, and—"

"They won't hurt you, Bari," said Balian, who was standing to one side, speaking to Cadogan. "These are friends, and we're going to celebrate Christmas with them—"

"Yule," said the druid. "Druids do not celebrate Christmas."

"Of course," said Balian flatly. He'd been reminded of this numerous times, and it just hadn't mattered enough. They were talking about the same festival, after all, with slightly different themes and names.

"Will there be rum in said Yule celebrations?" asked Jack. He looked up. It had started to snow, and soon, the ground would be covered with an icy white blanket. Without rum to warm him, this was going to be one miserable winter.

Will gave Jack a nudge. "Oh, cheer up," he said. "They might not have rum, but I'm sure they have other forms of alcohol. What is man without drink, after all?"

"Indeed," said Cadogan, giving one of his rare smiles. "We druids are rather fond of mead, and I'm sure that there will be no lack of drink."

"There might, however, be a lack of warmth," interjected Paris. He had wrapped a woollen blanket around his shoulders, but still he could not stop shivering. He'd been born in warmer climates, and this weather was truly not suited to him at all. Perhaps they'd somehow made their way to the Underworld. Didn't the tales say that it was cold?

* * *

Jack's prediction came true; the snow did cover the ground very quickly. There was one good side to the excessive cold, for the muddy ground had frozen solid, and now walking was no longer such messy business. Somehow, the druids had found enough dry wood to build a bonfire in the middle of the stone circle. The flames crackled and sent sparks up into the night sky, as if they were creating new stars. Other smaller fires surrounded it, and it was on those that the evening feast was being cooked.

Horns of sweet golden honeyed mead were passed around, and Barisian was even allowed to have one sip. The men had gone hunting again, and this time Paris had managed to shoot two plump birds. Those were now roasting on spits, after having been stuffed with herbs; their melted fat and juices fell down into the fire, making it sputter.

"By the gods, that smells good," said Achilles, keeping his eyes fixed on the roasting bird and its gleaming brown skin. Crispy fatty skin; he hadn't had anything like it in a long time. "Is it ready yet?"

"Not quite," said Briseis, turning the spit and batting her husband's hand away. She didn't even glance at him. Right now, he wasn't worth her attention, for he only had one thing on his mind, and that was his food. "Give it a few more moments. You don't want the inside to be all bloody."

"Actually, Briseis," said Paris. "I think it's done. The last time you tried to cook something, we had nothing but charcoal for breakfast."

The Trojan woman glared at her cousin. "That was because I got...distracted," she protested. "Now, if you want this to taste good, you'd better stop talking to me, or else I'll—hey!"

With one swift move, Jack had snatched the spit from Briseis, and was now slicing bits of succulent meat from the bird. "Luv, if the insides are still too juicy for your tastes, we can roast it again," he said, blowing on his fingers and the piece of meat. With that, he popped the meat into his mouth.

The others wasted no time in trying to wrest the roasted bird from the hungry pirate. Jack tried to hold it out of their reach, to no avail. His friends were very determined, and they were a force to be reckoned with. Balian managed to get himself a nice juicy leg after a brief struggle, while the unfortunate Paris ended up with the bird's head. "Why is it that I always get the worst deal?" he demanded. "And I shot the bloody bird!" He was soon placated when Will announced that the other bird was done, even though there was some trepidation. They didn't know if William Turner was a better cook than his wife. However, their fears were alleviated.

Baskets of bread were passed around, and there were even some sweetmeats made with nuts, honey and dried fruit. All ten of Barisian's fingers were soon covered in sticky sweetness, and he was enthusiastically trying to lick them clean, with little success. Someone had prepared honeyed-milk just for him, and even though there weren't any presents, he decided that this was the best Christmas he'd ever had, despite the fact that it wasn't really Christmas. Better still, he didn't have to listen to Bishop Gavin's sermon before the feast.

The boy clapped his hands and laughed as Jack waltzed past him with a flagon of mead, singing his favourite song and attempting to teach it to the druids. There seemed to be no end to the festivities. Someone produced a lute, and soon the entire stone circle was filled with song and dancing. Elizabeth had even managed to persuade a rather inebriated Balian to join in. Of course, if the man had been in anyway sober, he would have been mortified by what he was doing.

While Balian was an expert fighter, he also had two left feet and no grasp of music. Simply watching him move in such an uncoordinated manner was enough to make Barisian, and others, collapse into fits of giggles. Agnes was laughing with the child. Just as well Balian hadn't danced when he had gone to Nièvre; seeing him like this might have changed her opinion drastically.

"I'll never let him live it down," said Gimli, raising a drinking horn to his lips and downing the mead inside it in one single gulp. His cheeks were ruddy from the fire and the drink. The dwarf burped. "Ah, I think I like these men. They know how to have a good time."

And then, as the notes of the lute faded away, they heard a clear pure voice, singing in an odd but beautiful language. "What is that?" whispered Agnes, but no one answered her. All eyes were focused on Legolas as the elf sang of white shores and a sea so clear that it seemed as if was of finest crystal. None of them understood a single word, but they could feel the emotion through the music. They were all in awe of their companion, and the druids looked as if they had seen a god.

"To hear one of the _Fae_ sing..." Agnes heard Cadogan whisper. "Now, that is a blessing which I had not expected to receive in my lifetime."

Legolas' song conjured up images of lush green forests, tall shining mountains and great ancient trees which understood the speech of the elves. He sang of beautiful elven maidens dancing amongst the dried leaves while the warriors chased them, each trying to win the favour of an elf maid. Even though Gimli had had a little too much to drink, he recognized an underlying tone in the song; Legolas' sealonging was affecting him again, and to top it all, he was homesick as well.

The last note of the song died away, and silence reigned. Everyone was at a loss for words, for they had never heard anything so beautiful. Then Jack burped, shattering any remaining solemnity.

* * *

Elsewhere in Scotland, other men were not enjoying themselves so much. Paul looked at his meagre ration of cold salted pork. Self-deprivation was part of being a good Christian, but this was a bit too much. The prisoners back in Rome got better fare, surely. At least theirs would be warm.

He used his water to wash away some of the salt and then gnawed on the tough meat, all the while imagining what he would do to those heretics once he got his hands on them. The Inquisitor was looking forward to hearing their screams as they burned for all their offences against God.

"We have seen neither sight nor shadow of them," Richard muttered to Ambrosius. The king's fur-lined cloak was covered in snowflakes. "Are you so certain they would have come up north?"

"I am certain," said the cardinal.

"But why? Apart from the fact that Scotland has a large number of heretics, there is no reason they would want to come here. It's miserable, it's cold, it's wet...Southern France is full of heretics, and yet they chose Scotland?"

"They would follow that old man," said Ambrosius absent-mindedly, shielding his eyes with his hand.

"The old man?" said Richard. His suspicion rose. Something was not quite right. It seemed as if Ambrosius was not really after the heretics, although what the cardinal was truly after, the king could not say. Was there something hidden in Scotland that the Church wanted? And somehow, Balian had learned of the whereabouts of whatever it was?

"You will see," said Ambrosius. "These men aren't simply running from the wrath of the Church; they know of something which might be able to overthrow Christendom."

"Jesu!" said Richard, making the sign of the cross. So that was why Ambrosius was in such a hurry. If the heretics managed to overthrow the Church of Christ, then it would be a dire situation indeed. He wasn't sure what would happen exactly, but he was sure that it would not be good for his throne. The king was shaken out of his ruminations by the voice of the scout whom he'd sent out.

"Sire! Druids!" he cried.

"Druids?" said Richard. "You mean pagan priests?"

"Yes," said the scout. "Many of them have been sighted. They were all heading in one direction, and the locals say that there is an old stone circle there." The man pointed into the distance. The swirling snow hid whatever lay out there, but at least they had a direction.

"Onto your horses!" shouted Richard to his men. "The heretics are near! We shall destroy them all at once!"

* * *

Legolas woke with a start. The sky was just beginning to lighten, and there was nothing save for a thin line of grey on the horizon against the black of the night, but he could hear something, and it was not the song of the waking birds. All around him, men were still sleeping, tired by the festivities of the night. The elf put his ear to the ground. Hoof-beats. He estimated that there were about five hundred horses.

"Awake! Awake!" he cried, leaping to his feet. Men scrambled up, scrabbling in the snow for their weapons. "To arms! The enemy approaches!"

"Mahal confound it!" roared Gimli. "Can't they even give us a moment's peace? We've not rested properly since this all started!" The dwarf's bad temper was further augmented by the fact that there was a headache pounding behind his eyes. Perhaps drinking all that mead had not been such a good idea.

"We won't be able to win the fight," said Cadogan. "Come, the forest will hide us!"

"I'll not run in the face of my adversaries!" declared the dwarf.

"Ah, come on, Redbeard," said Jack. "We run to live and fight another day. 'Tis a long term plan, savvy?"

"I cannot believe that I'm saying this, but I agree with Jack," said Balian. "With half of us suffering from headaches, we'll all be cut down in one bloody massacre, and what will that achieve?"

"Glory," said Achilles, pointing out the obvious—in his opinion.

Jack snorted. "Hah, we'll be forgotten in a matter of days, that's what'll happen. So, what say ye, Anna-Maria? Ye wanna stay an' go down in a hail of arrows, or are you opting for the smart option?"

"Aye! We run!" said the female pirate. With the suicidal warriors outnumbered, the company of druids and heretics split and fled into the surrounding forests. It was dark and damp within, for while most of the trees were bare, some of them were still green, as if they had been perpetually frozen in this state. The frozen dead leaves crunched beneath their feet. There was not even the song of a single bird. It was as if everything was seeking shelter, either from the cold, or from something else.

"The trees sleep," said Cadogan, placing a hand against the rough trunk of one such tree.

"Well, at least they won't be talking," grumbled Gimli. He still remembered the time he had spent in Fangorn, and he didn't relish those memories. Mostly, they consisted of a certain elf laughing at him when he had jumped at every single sound. Could he be blamed? He'd seen those orcs massacred by the branches of those murderous trees.

* * *

Soldiers were riding towards the stone circle where gathering of the druidic council had been only moments ago. From a distance, they looked like a swarm of ants about to overwhelm much bigger prey with sheer numbers. There was a malevolent presence with them, although Asatarë deemed that it was more likely to be a mortal with dark thoughts than someone whose powers he needed to be wary of. However, it meant that meeting the Firstborn would have to wait. The Maia sighed as he leaned back against the trunk of a poplar tree and set down the chest containing the jewel on the snow covered ground.

The tree's branches were bare, and it resembled a snow covered skeleton more than anything. It had been here for years, but then again, it belonged here, unlike him. The Maia was growing weary of this mortal world and its rapid changes. He could hardly keep up with them, and the places of refuge were growing few. Asatarë longed for the company of immortal folk again. It would be refreshing just to see someone who had more than simply a few handfuls of years to his name. Men were all very well, but they focused on what they could see and what concerned them. The past and the distant future mattered little to these people who bloomed and then withered and faded as quickly as spring blossoms.

* * *

The stone circle was a magnificent monument; a legacy of a bygone age, when superstitions ran rampant. Ambrosius pulled his horse to a stop just outside of it. Even he could feel the power emanating from the place. Those within were under the protection of ancient deities, and the cardinal was not sure whether he wanted to risk the wrath of pagan gods. He saw nothing, except the tall standing stones and the remains of a bonfire in the centre, with several other smaller fires scattered around it. Some of the coals were still smoking. Bones from the feast last night were littered about on the snowy ground, along with some broken drinking horns. Neither the heretics nor the pagans were in sight. "They knew we were coming," said Ambrosius, striking his thigh with his fist in frustration. "Somehow, they knew!"

"Do you think their demons told them?" asked one of the Inquisitors. He glanced around nervously. "I've heard stories about these stone circles. Immortal folk, the _Fae_ helped to build them. Maybe they're angry..."

"Quiet!" hissed Ambrosius. "I have heard enough of this nonsense without you adding to it."

The Inquisitor wisely kept his mouth shut, but it still did not stop him from feeling as if someone was watching him. And, of course, he was correct

* * *

Legolas was once again perched on a high branch, staring through Will's spyglass. The others were below him, either sitting on the snowy ground or walking around aimlessly, hoping that they would not be detected. Some of them were trying, in vain, to keep warm by rubbing their hands together and blowing on them. None of them even thought of building a fire, for fear of being discovered. "They're not comfortable here," the elf said. "One of them looks as if he wants to run."

"Oh good," said Jack. "How much persuasion do you think they'll need?"

"Still a fair amount," replied the elf, not even bothering to look down. "His Eminence is still as resolved as ever, and the red-headed man —I assume that's Richard of England— is looking irritated. We didn't leave them very many presents, I guess."

"They know the tales of the Sacred Isle," said Cadogan. "They fear the _Fae_, even though they have not been sighted for many a year, until now. Will the immortal folk help us, milord? Can you not call on them?" The question was directed at Legolas. The others glanced at each other, and Gimli coughed deliberately to mask his snorts of laughter. As if Legolas could do anymore than they could.

"I'm afraid my people are reluctant to come out of hiding," said Legolas, and he sounded very serious. "They have been persecuted by these Inquisitors back on the mainland, and they have no desire to encounter the Christians again."

"And yet, you travel with Christians out in the open," said Cadogan.

"I didn't plan to," said the elven prince. "It just...happened."

"You cannot say that you do not enjoy showing us how inadequate we are," said Elizabeth.

"And young," added Will. "It is a pity that we are too far from the ocean. If not, then we could have called on Calypso for help, somehow."

"She wouldn't help," drawled Barbossa, brushing some snow off his feathered hat. "Calypso be no benevolent deity. She never helps anyone 'cept herself."

"Have they found our tracks yet?" asked Balian.

"It doesn't look like it," said Legolas. "Thank the Valar it's snowing, or else we'll be in trouble by now."

"Where to next?" asked Paris. "With the Inquisitors arriving, finding the old man is going to be very difficult indeed."

"It is not a matter of you finding him, young man, but of him finding you," said an unfamiliar gravelly voice with an odd accent which none of them had heard before. They all whipped around, and Legolas almost dropped Will's spyglass.

Standing there before them was an old man wearing a cloak the colour of mud and a pointed hat. He had a gnarled staff in his hand, and under his arm, there was a metal chest.

Legolas leapt down from his branch, and bowed to the Maia. Cadogan had lapsed into his own tongue and was saying something unintelligible, all the while gesturing wildly with his hands. Balian, for his part, simply stared. After everything, all the tribulations and pain and close brushes with death, they'd found the Irminsul.

* * *

Richard stared at the empty stone circle. Gone. He'd almost been able to avenge his humiliation in Tripoli, but somehow, the chance had eluded him. He cursed under his breath, using words which no well-brought up man should even know. However, before he could think about what to do next, a messenger rode up to him, bearing an urgent letter from London.

Philippe, that ambitious Frenchman, had attacked Richard's Norman territories. "Your Eminence," he said, turning to Ambrosius. "I would have loved to have been of more help to you, but duty calls. Philippe has attacked Normandy."

As Ambrosius absorbed the news, he decided that he hated those two cousins, but he hated Philippe more. The young French king must have found it all rather amusing, waiting for his kinsman to cause chaos before striking and trying to take advantage of the whole situation and making the chaos even worse. Now, without Richard's help, finding Balian would become even more difficult.

As if he sensed the churchman's annoyance, Richard offered to leave half of his men behind to help Ambrosius. It was the best he could do in this situation. If he was going to go to war against France, then he would need every single man. Philippe Auguste was not his father Louis, who had lost more than half his kingdom when he had divorced Eleanor of Aquitaine. No, Philippe was a lot shrewder, and much more ambitious than Louis.

* * *

"They're leaving!" Legolas' shout distracted all of them as they sat around, listening to the Maia, who was explaining that the Irminsul was, in fact, not a Silmaril. "Richard's men are going! What could have made them leave? If they had sent out search parties, they would have found us, surely."

"There's only one possibility," said Balian.

"What?" asked Achilles.

"Philippe," said Balian. "My cousin knows better than a pirate when it comes to making profits." He stood, brushing off any wet leaves clinging to him. "Silmaril or not, the Irminsul must be destroyed."

"Destroyed?" said Asatarë. "You cannot destroy it! I have been guarding it for years, and I am not just going to let you smash it into a thousand pieces."

"The temptation must be eliminated. As well as that, if we destroy the jewel, we can be certain that the four jewels will never be joined and used by anyone with malevolent ambitions," said Balian.

"Even if that was true, do you not think that Manwë would have told me to destroy it instead of hide it?" said the Maia. A frown made deep lines in his face, and he was glaring at Balian. Who did this man think he was? Asatarë had not stayed in exile for over a thousand years just so that this young mortal upstart could come and destroy that which he guarded.

"There must be some way to destroy it," said Jack, scratching his chin. "I mean, nothing's invincible, right?"

"Invincible or not, you don't want that stone to fall into Ambrosius' hands," said Legolas. "Firstly, while it is a lesser jewel, who knows what Ambrosius can do with it? That man already has too much power than is good for the world. Secondly, we have to run; they're coming this way." He leapt down, and the others stared at him for a while before they absorbed the meaning of what he had just said. Then they all burst into action, running after the elf.

"You know, lad, we would appreciate it if you told us the important news first!" said Gimli as he raced after his friend. Even after all these years of dealing with them, he never understood them. Well, perhaps this was just one strange elf. After all, being with him meant getting into trouble.

However, luck had somehow left them, for within moments, they were surrounded by the mounted troops. Spears were pointed at them, like a thicket of glistening thorns. Impassive men looked on, while others leered and whispered amongst themselves, bickering about which woman they would get after the heretics were captured. Elizabeth did not know exactly what they were saying, but she could guess their meaning. What else did lowborn soldiers talk about, other than pay and food?

The ranks of soldiers parted, and Ambrosius rode through. Days of travel had not affected the proud manner in which he held himself. He smiled, albeit thinly, and focused on Balian. "We meet again, my lord of Ibelin, and under rather inauspicious circumstances, I'm afraid."

"Indeed. It is most unfortunate that we have to meet again," agreed Balian. "I am weary of your presence, Your Eminence, and I wish you would go to Hell."

Ambrosius laughed. "I see that you have lost none of your spirit," he said. "It is a pity that we are enemies. I could have come to admire you. However, I have given you a chance, and you have refused it. It seems that we are fated to be enemies forever."

"And I am glad of it, for I would be ashamed to call such a hypocrite my friend," said Balian. He gripped the hilt of his sword so hard that his knuckles were white. Despite the cold, he could feel sweat dampening his undershirt. He prayed that Ambrosius did not know how nervous he was. He wanted no one to see his weakness, especially not his enemies.

Jack gave Will a nudge. "You know, when he's in that mood, he's rather frightening," whispered the pirate.

"It's a pity he doesn't get it more often," Will whispered back. "Maybe then he could keep you out of trouble."

"I doubt it," scoffed Jack. "I don't bow to anyone's wishes. I'm Captain Jack Sparrow, savvy?"

"This time, even being Captain Jack Sparrow won't save you."

Then, as Ambrosius' gaze wandered over the band of weary travellers, he noticed someone new with them. It was an old man, wearing a pointed hat...

"The Irminsul!" he cried. "Seize it!"

Shots rang out as the pirates used the last of their powder and ammunition. Legolas put three arrows to his bow and fired in rapid succession. Horses screamed as their tendons were cut to bring them down, and their riders with them. Battle was bloody business, and innocents got hurt, but what choice did they have? They were fighting for their lives.

Gimli's axes cleaved limbs and heads. The dwarf was covered in the hot salty blood of men. For a moment, he felt a pang of regret. They should not be fighting each other. However, he hardened his heart. These men were not like the men of Rohan or of Gondor. In fact, they behaved more like orcs than men. With that in mind, he threw himself into battle with more fervour than before.

Despite Asatarë's old and frail appearance, he held out rather well, shooting bolts of unseen energy from his staff and blasting back anyone who tried to attack him. Of course, his technique relied on the fact that there was no one there to counter his spells. Someone did manage to get close, however, and although he paid for his courage with his life, he managed to knock the metal chest out of the Maia's arms. Men pounced on it at once, and took it back to the cardinal. Everyone could see what was happening, but they could do nothing. This time, they were well and truly routed.

It seemed as if all was lost. They were surrounded, practically captured. Even worse, Ambrosius had gotten that jewel, and who knew what evil he would make with it? Balian glanced down at the frightened Barisian. It had all been in vain; he'd tried to save the world, but now, he couldn't even save his own son.

Legolas, however, was not ready to give up. He never was, and being an elf, he always had something else prepared. Elizabeth had not known it, but he had stolen some of her 'explosives'. "Can you light a fire?" he asked Asatarë in Quenya.

"I am not a creature of the fire, and my strength is drained!" replied the Maia in the same language. His bushy eyebrows drew closer together.

"Oh, but you must be able to do _something_. You are a Maia, for Elbereth's sake! I only ask for the smallest of flames."

Asatarë grumbled about young elves who did not know their place, but he did concentrate all his remaining strength and tried to do as the elf had asked. A tiny flame materialized, floating in the air. Legolas managed to touch the fuse to it before it extinguished itself. "I'm sorry, Your Eminence," said Legolas, holding up his secret weapon. "But I don't bow to you and your kind." With that, he threw the grenade straight at the cardinal. Ambrosius only ducked just in time, or else the missile would have hit him in the chest. It landed amongst his troops.

Just as the elf had predicted, there was a loud explosion which sent bits of bodies and armour flying everywhere. Ambrosius himself was thrown from the horse. Something cracked as he landed on the ground, and he cried out in pain. However, he refused to let go of the metal chest. It was everything he needed and wanted.

"Protect the legate!" Paul shouted. He had known that the heretics were more troublesome than they looked, and he was right. The remaining men rallied behind the injured cardinal, preventing any of the others from taking back the Irminsul.

"Leave it!" cried Jack, dragging away Gimli by the dwarf's mail hood. "We'll get it back later! Will, help me!" Balian had thought to go after the Irminsul, but pleas from Barisian and Agnes changed his mind.

Paul tried to pursue the fleeing fugitives, but Ambrosius told him to stop. "We have the Irminsul, and no doubt they will want it back," he said, in between painful wheezes. Experience told Paul that His Eminence had probably cracked a rib or two. "We don't need to chase them. They will come to us. For now, we withdraw, back to Rome."

* * *

**A/N: **I can sense the end! I apologize for any mistakes; I've been having writer's block all week, and it's really annoying. If you do pick up mistakes/inadequacies which I haven't picked up, don't hesitate to tell me, and I'll go and fix them. After I finish this fic, I'm going to go back and make the entire series more presentable, perhaps by adding extra characterization and whatnot, in the form of a few extra scenes here and there. You're most welcome to make suggestions.


	20. A Dance Party

**Chance Encounter: Legacy of the Third Age**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything that you recognize; I'm just borrowing them without permission but with every intention of returning them after I'm done, savvy?

**Chapter 19: A Dance Party**

How? How could everything have gone so wrong? The question kept on repeating itself in Balian's mind as he paced on the snow-covered ground, leaving a trail of dark footprints. Snowflakes stuck to his hair and eyelashes. Jack was complaining that he was making him dizzy. The Frank hardly cared. Dread had settled in the pit of his stomach. Ambrosius had the Irminsul, and he, Balian, had more or less led the ambitious cardinal to it. Guilt gnawed at his mind.

"At least we know the old bugger's been hurt," said Jack. "Come on, it's an achievement."

"They just won the ultimate victory!" said Balian, turning to the pirate. He was in no mood for bantering and humour. "I don't give a damn what we managed to do! He got the Irminsul, and I led him to it!"

"You give yourself too much credit," said Legolas. "I'm sure he would have found the Irminsul one way or another." He sounded calm, but behind the veneer of serenity, the others could tell that the elven prince was just as riled as they were. He was simply very good at hiding it.

"That does not change the fact that I made it easy for him," said Balian. His headache didn't improve his mood much. 'Damned drink,' he thought. He promised himself that he would never get involved in any sort of heavy drinking again. "Now that he's got the Irminsul, the world will never be the same again, and I feel responsible."

"Well, we can't have that, can we?" said Elizabeth. "There's a very simple solution, actually."

"What?" said the others, almost at the same time. There were some other variations of that question, but those were too rude to be recorded, and one would do well just to ignore them.

"We get it back," said Elizabeth, crossing her arms.

"Honestly, Elizabeth, it's not that simple," said Will. "They will have gone back to Rome by now, and with Richard and Philippe fighting it out on the coast of France, it will be very difficult to go back to the mainland."

"Will, do you think they will not have as many problems as us?" asked Elizabeth. "That cardinal is strong, but he's injured, and old people heal very slowly. Their pace will be at least halved, and I think he _wants_ us to try and reclaim the Irminsul."

"Why?" asked Balian.

"Because he's a vengeful bastard who wants us dead, that's why."

* * *

Paul had thought that Ambrosius had been jesting when the cardinal had ordered them to go back to Rome. After all, they'd come all this way for the heretics, hadn't they? While it made sense that the heretics might want their battered metal chest back, what if the cardinal was wrong? Paul certainly hadn't come to this cold godforsaken Island for some metal chest with a rock inside. As an Inquisitor, he had sworn that he would forfeit his claims to worldly treasures.

The cardinal himself lay on a stretcher carried by four men. His eyes were closed, but Paul knew that he was listening to everything that was going on. The old churchman clutched the old metal chest close to him. His face was haggard with pain, and the Inquisitor suspected that he was falling ill, with the cold and his injury. Ambrosius might be strong, but he was not a young man, and could not recover as spectacularly as Ibelin had done.

Speaking of Ibelin, Paul wondered how on earth the man could recuperate so quickly and so well. The last time he'd seen the man, the heretic had had no observable physical disadvantage. Some mischief was going on, and the Inquisitor was determined to put an end to it.

Brittle frozen blades of grass snapped beneath the horses' hooves. The noise seemed unbearably loud in this silent world. No voices could be heard, but Paul could not help but feel that they were being watched by something. He didn't know what it was, and not knowing something frustrated him. Hues of grey and white surrounded them like a shroud of death. The thin sliver moon cast an eerie silver glow over the land. In the distance, the howl of a wolf broke through the silence; a long mournful call for what had been lost.

And what exactly had this world lost? The mystery of superstition? The dark mantle of pagan beliefs? Paul did not understand why men were so reluctant to accept Christ and His religion. Was salvation not better than what they'd had before?

There was another call, this one closer, and unidentifiable. It sounded like an owl, and yet it was not an owl. He wheeled his horse around, looking for the source. All he could see were the dark silhouettes of snow-covered trees. All his companions were panicking. "Maintain formation!" he called. "'tis nothing but a strange beast, I am certain! Get back into your places!" With some nervous murmuring, the men obeyed. However, they were as skittish as yearling colts that had caught some strange scent.

The sooner they left this godforsaken island behind, the better.

* * *

Will grinned when he saw the Inquisitors and the soldiers panicking. He indicated to Jack to do his imitation of an owl again, knowing very well that the pirate sounded nothing like the bird. However, it seemed to be spooking their enemies, which was the entire point of this exercise.

Catching up with the Inquisitors had not been too difficult. The men of Rome and England were unfamiliar with this place, and often took the long way. Both Cadogan and Asatarë knew of many convenient shortcuts through the seemingly never ending forests of Scotland, and that had sped up their progress dramatically.

Further ahead, Elizabeth, with the help of Anna-Maria and Briseis, was preparing for the most spectacular puppet show that she had ever put on. It wasn't often that one got to perform for a cardinal and a bunch of battle hardened Inquisitors. They'd made a marionette which vaguely resembled a human shape out of scraps of cloth and were just putting on the finishing touches which would make it more effective. The bars were made out of roughly carved branches, and somehow, Cadogan had managed to provide them with some lengths of yarn. The marionette was supposed to be a malevolent spirit. Although it didn't look like much at the moment, Elizabeth had assured them all that it would work well; she'd done it before.

Crouching behind the trunk of a black poplar was Balian. He, along with Achilles, Paris and Gimli were supposed to attack to attack the Inquisitors after Elizabeth's performance had frightened them out of their wits, or at least their formation. Asatarë, Cadogan and some other druids were concealed elsewhere, ready to aid them with their powers, whatever they amounted to. Balian just hoped that Ambrosius had not yet managed to learn how to use the Irminsul.

He heard Jack call again. The entire company of Inquisitors had stopped. Their horses were snorting and prancing about, for they had sensed their riders' nervousness and were getting nervous in turn. They tossed their heads, pulling at the reins and simply tried to escape.

Elizabeth saw her chance. She launched her mass of rags and manipulated its movements to look as if it was furious about something. The 'ghost' swooped above the heads of the riders and spooked the horses further. High whinnies pierced the air. Some of the animals reared and tossed their riders from the saddles, and others simply bolted, trying to get away from the monstrosity which was flying above them.

"Now!" called Legolas, Jumping out of his hiding place —somewhere amongst the branches of a tree, of course— and shooting arrows in quick succession before he even landed, taking down men as their horses panicked. Balian leapt out from behind the tree. He made straight for where Ambrosius was. Any man who tried to get in his way was cut down. Hot blood splashed onto his face. He kept on fighting. The Irminsul; that was all he cared about.

Ambrosius was struggling to stand. In the cold light of the moon, his face looked as if it belonged to a corpse. He clutched the metal chest close to him as if it would somehow protect him from this man's wrath. His fingers fumbled at the catch. He'd been working on it for a long time now, and he prayed that it would open now that he truly needed to use the Irminsul.

Although he was old and injured, he was still surprisingly nimble. The cardinal threw himself aside just as Balian charged at him. The chest flew from his grasp and struck a nearby embedded rock. There was a loud resounding click, and the lid opened. A shining jewel flew out and landed amongst the frost-covered dead leaves.

For a moment, no one moved. Everyone simply stared at the stone. It gave off a cold flickering blue glow, as if it was on fire from within. However, the frost on the leaves did not even melt. They were all mesmerized by the sheer beauty of it; it was as if they had all been frozen into place. The lull in the struggle lasted only briefly, for they soon regained their senses again. However, what had simply been a fight was now tainted with the madness of greed, as every man tried to claim the Irminsul.

Jack, who happened to be closest to the jewel, quickly scooped it up, but then he dropped it again just as quickly. "It's so bloody freezin' that it burns!" he hollered.

Jack the Monkey scampered into the fray. His master had ordered him to get that shiny stone, and that was exactly what the undead little creature was going to do. The sight of the tiny moving skeleton shocked many, although others were unperturbed. However, before the monkey could get the jewel, which was larger than its head, Ambrosius, with his hand protected by the thick fabric of his cloak, snatched the Irminsul away, only to have Balian knock it out of his hand again.

It flew high into the air, like a shooting star. Men pushed each other aside and trampled their companions beneath their feet as each jostled and struggled to be the one to catch it. Only, the Irminsul never landed anywhere. Legolas leapt into the air, caught the jewel, and before they knew it, the elf was in the canopy of the forest. Being an elf, he was less susceptible to the cold, but nonetheless, he could feel his hands going numb, so he quickly put it into the leather pouch which hung from his belt. Usually, it was used for holding emergency food rations, but those had long since been eaten.

Arrows flew at him, and he dodged them deftly. The missiles hit the branches of the tree with dull thuds, and one came so close to him that he could feel the wind as it flew past. 'Valar help me,' he thought. There were too many arrows, and he didn't relish the thought of getting shot, especially not by a man. Not only did it hurt, but Gimli would never let him hear the end of it.

With the Inquisitors and soldiers completely focused on the elf, the others went ignored. That didn't suit Achilles at all. No one ignored him. He crept up behind the enemy. Their shouts masked any noises which he made. Glancing back, he motioned to his comrades. Paris gave an inconspicuous nod as he realized what the Greek was trying to do, and he climbed into a tree to get a better vantage point. The Trojan put an arrow to the string and drew his bow, ready to fire when the moment came.

Elizabeth threw aside her role as the puppeteer, and secured a rope to a sturdy branch. She could see Will doing the same thing in his tree. "Now!" she heard Achilles shout. Grasping the rope, she swung down, knocking over several archers before she landed on her feet.

"You picked the wrong people, boys," she said, drawing her sword as the soldiers stared at her, stunned. Before they could react, Will swung down. His blade was already drawn, and before his feet touched the ground, he'd already cut down several men.

"May I have this dance, Mrs. Turner?" he asked Elizabeth, all the while grinning mischievously.

"You may, Mr. Turner," said Elizabeth, returning the grin. He took her free hand. That was when the soldiers recovered from their shock, and they charged at the couple. Will and Elizabeth fought as if they were one. Each could anticipate the move of the other and they moved as if they were waltzing with each other. Someone tried to strike at Elizabeth's unguarded side, only to have his blow parried by Will.

"Sorry, mate, but she's taken," said Will, before disarming the other man.

"Dancing!" cried Jack. "I love to dance!" He grabbed Anna-Maria, and before the female pirate could complain, he dragged her into the melee. "What shall it be, Miss Anna-Maria? A waltz, or perhaps a polka?"

"Yer daft, Jack!" cried Anna-Maria, but she could not help grinning at his smug smile. "I can't even dance a—hell be damned if I let you stab 'im in the back, ya slimy bilge rat!" Hot sticky liquid splashed onto her hand as her blade pierced flesh.

"So I take it that we're doin' the dance o' death, luv," said Jack. He twisted out of the way of a blow which would have brained him and tripped up the man who tried to deliver said blow. "Nice try, mate, but this is a two-person dance, savvy?"

"And I be dancin' a solo all by me onesies," grumbled Barbossa, but he threw himself into the fight with much enthusiasm. All they needed was the music, and this could be a real ball, or so he thought. Others were not enjoying it so much.

Fulk found himself face to face with Paul. "So," said the Inquisitor, sneering. "You have decided to throw your allegiance to the Church to the wind. I should have known that your faith was weak."

"My allegiance is with God, not with a corrupt establishment which seeks to reap power instead of sow peace," said Fulk. "You've abused your power, Paul, and you will pay for it." The two men circled each other. They were well matched. While Paul was a larger man, Fulk was quicker on his feet, and being with the others had taught him a few useful new tricks, even if they were not entirely honourable.

"Someone will be paying, Fulk," said Paul, "but I think it's you." With that, he lunged at his former friend. Fulk sidestepped and tried to let Paul's momentum overbalance him, but for such a large man, the Inquisitor was rather agile. He pivoted, and almost decapitated his opponent, except Fulk dropped down at the last moment, and rolled away, before getting to his feet deftly again. The two men circled each other, neither willing to be the first one to charge. However, Paul's impatience got the better of him, and he struck out again, a little too rashly. Fulk trapped Paul's blade with the guard of his sword. However, he was not strong enough to disarm his opponent. The two men wrestled, one trying to free his weapon, and the other trying to keep said weapon trapped.

Legolas was once again firing down on the enemy, and he had the added advantage of height. However, he was running out of arrows, and soon he would have to resort to using his knives. Below him, Gimli swung his axe around, splitting heads as if they were nothing but melons. Blood turned the snow dark, and their feet churned it all into slush. Firing his last arrow, Legolas leapt out of the safety of the trees and engaged himself in battle once again. His long white knives became a pale blur in the dim moonlight as he parried and slashed. Dark stains appeared on his clothes and covered his hands. Killing was messy business, and he preferred not to do it if he had the choice.

Ambrosius dragged himself over to the side, out of reach of the fighting men. He cursed the heretics in every tongue he knew. They were ruining all his plans, and now that angel of death had the Irminsul. 'Is he really an angel?' asked a voice inside the cardinal's head. He was, after all, a creature of flesh, and one would never really know until one tried to wound him. Ambrosius got the attention of an Inquisitor.

"I want that demon gone," he said, indicating the elf.

"That's not so easy, Your Eminence," said the man. "I cannot get close to him."

"Whoever said you had to get close?" said Ambrosius. "You have a bow and arrows. Use them!" The Inquisitor glanced at the cardinal. He was reluctant to resort to such base tactics, but this was an order, and he could not disobey a cardinal. Moreover, it was the only way to take down such a warrior. He slowly fitted an arrow to his bow. Suddenly, the cardinal stopped him. "Wait," he said. From within the folds of his robes, he produced a small ceramic vial. Taking the arrow from the Inquisitor, he dipped the tip into the liquid within. "I want to make sure that at least one of them dies," he said.

"But, Your Eminence..." protested the Inquisitor. One look from Ambrosius silenced him.

"Remember, Inquisitor, that you are one of Christ's soldiers. That creature there is an enemy of God. We fight for God and His Church using any means necessary, do you understand?"

The man nodded. His heart beat so loudly against his ribcage that the sound drowned out all the other noises. He drew his bow again and took aim carefully. It was a wonder that his hands were not shaking. There, he had the golden glowing warrior. He released his arrow.

Legolas looked up to see an arrow coming towards him, but it was too late, for a mere moment later, he felt its impact. At first, there was no pain, only shock. And then it struck him, as if a searing inferno was blazing within him. He fell to his knees with a gasp, clutching his side from which the arrow protruded.

"Legolas!" shouted Gimli. "Mahal, no!" He cut down the two men who had been fighting him and rushed to his friend's side. The elf's golden head was bowed, and his hair veiled his face. When he heard Gimli's voice, he lifted his head. Dark blood stained his pale lips. The dwarf had never seen his elven friend so vulnerable, and he was frightened.

However, it seemed as if the elf was not going to give up so easily, for he staggered to his feet again, determined to help his friends even if it meant his death. The Irminsul was a heavy weight against his hip, and it reminded him of his duties to his companions and to the world. He was an elf-lord, for the Valar's sake! One arrow would not be able to stop him. "Don't worry about me, Gimli," he whispered hoarsely. "There is more at stake..." His legs seemed to lack strength and somehow, he could not seem to focus his vision, for everything was getting blurry. He stumbled, and he would have fallen if a hand had not closed itself around his arm. It was Asatarë, and the Maia seemed very concerned.

"I have him, Master Dwarf," said the Maia. Gimli nodded, a little more relieved now that there was someone wise and powerful taking care of his wounded friend.

Paul had freed his blade from Fulk, and was now furious. He took a large swipe, and only missed the other man by a very small distance. However, his fury made him blind to everything else that was happening around him, and he did not notice that Fulk was not the only trying to kill him.

Paris had seen everything, and while he could not help Legolas in anyway, he could still help his other friends. The Trojan put his last arrow to his bowstring. Paul had his back to him. However, the man was armoured. Paris waited, praying that the Inquisitor would turn around some time soon. His entire body was taut. If he missed, he would have no more chances. Fulk pivoted as he parried, forcing Paul to change his position. There, he had it. Paris let the arrow fly. It struck Paul in the eye, pierced the thin bony wall of the socket, and went straight to the brain. The Inquisitor fell into a crumpled heap on the ground and remained there.

'Justice has been served,' thought Paris with grim satisfaction. Paul had been blind in life, not seeing the truth even though it had been right there before him. Let him be blind in death as well.

The company of heretics had now gathered around their wounded comrade, forming a protective circle around him as they slowly but surely retreated into the forest. The soldiers surrounded them, but none of them wanted to advance, for they had all seen what these fugitives could do when forced. Asatarë was at the very front, brandishing his staff before him and very much resembling a wrathful prophet. Wind swirled, whipping his beard and robes about him. An unearthly glow surrounded him as he began muttering in an unknown language. He wasn't supposed to be interfering in the affairs of this world, but one of the Eldar had been wounded, perhaps critically, and that made it his business. The light around him grew until it encompassed all the heretics and was starting to spread towards the soldiers.

The men lost their courage in the face of such unnatural powers and remained where they were, even though Ambrosius was commanding them to charge. Asatarë's gaze fell on the cardinal. So, this was the greedy mortal who had wanted the Irminsul for his own gain. The Maia pointed his staff at him. A bolt of invisible energy flew out of the end, knocking the cardinal back several feet. The men panicked, and while they were still in shock, the fugitives slipped away and disappeared into the darkness of the pagan forest.

* * *

He wasn't aware of very much except the pain and the feeling of hot blood against his cold skin. Legolas vaguely registered that it was his. He did not remember having ever felt so tired before. Why wouldn't they let him rest? They kept on speaking to him, not that he could actually understand what they were saying. Their voices were soft enough to be unintelligible, but loud enough to irritate him.

"It's bad, isn't it?" Gimli asked Asatarë. The Maia prodded the wound gently with rough fingers.

"The wound is deep," he said. "You can be grateful that the arrow did not break, Master Dwarf, for that would make removing it excessively difficult."

"Should we even remove the arrow?" asked Balian. "It could worsen his situation, and...and—"

"You can't just leave the arrow in him," argued Paris. "Who knows what's on the tip? He might die of blood poisoning if we don't treat the wound."

"That may be," said Elizabeth. "But shouldn't we wait until we are at a hospice, or at least beneath a roof?"

"There is no time for that, Lizzie," said Jack. Even the pirate was sombre. He glanced up at the canopy of the forest. Bare branches criss-crossed, creating a lattice of shadows. Only a few stars peeked out, shining dimly against the darkness of the night. "You go and take the other ladies and the knightling away, because things are about to get very ugly."

"He is going to be all right, isn't he?" asked Agnes in a small voice. She'd always thought of the elf as some sort of invincible champion of the light, and seeing him so vulnerable frightened her.

"He'd better be," growled Gimli, although he could not mask the underlying worry in his voice. "If not, he'll be gettin' an earful from me." He gripped the elf's hand tightly. "You listen to me, laddie; you listen very carefully. If you die on me, I'm going to carve Nurse Legless on a statue of yours somewhere, you hear me?" That seemed to make the elf react. Legolas turned his head towards the dwarf. He opened his mouth, as if he was trying to say something, but no sound ever came out.

Asatarë put two fingers on the elf's wrist, just above the veins. The pulse was uneven, unnatural. "There's something on that arrow," he said.

"What do you mean?" said Balian sharply. He didn't like the sound of what the Maia had just said.

"I hope I'm wrong, but Valar help us, I think the arrow was poisoned," said Asatarë.

The last word made them all turn cold. In their own way, each of them had unconsciously come to perceive Legolas as their leader, and they had never thought that he would fall.

Cadogan began to sing softly under his breath. Whatever magic he was working, it seemed to help, for the elf's breathing became easier and deeper. Legolas' eyes closed. "I've put him to sleep," said the druid. "If we are to be removing the arrow, then I believe it would be better if he did not feel it."

"Good idea," said Will. "We need a fire, and hot water.

"We've still got Jack's gold pot," said Paris. "We can melt snow for water." He took said gold pot and began filling it with snow. His hands grew numb very quickly, but the prince ignored his discomfort and filled the vessel. A friend's life was at stake, and he would rather go through the Underworld than let a comrade fall without doing anything to help him.

Asatarë cut away the elf's tunic to expose the wound. Dark hot blood trickled from the edges. Muttering a prayer to the Valar as he wrapped his fingers around the shaft, he slowly extracted the projectile. It came free with a squelch, and then blood started pouring out in a torrent. "Bandages, now!" he said. Someone handed him a torn up linen shirt. He wadded up the fabric and pressed it against the wound, hoping that the pressure would stop the bleeding. A soft moan escaped the elf's lips, but thankfully, he did not wake.

Blood soaked the makeshift bandage. "He's not going to make it," said the Maia, looking down at the gory mess. "He's losing too much blood!"

"You're a Maia!" cried Balian in frustration. "Do something!"

"I am a Maia, not a miracle worker! I cannot give life if I do not take it away from somewhere else!"

"You mean you can transfer life from one person to another?" asked Jack. He seemed to be deep in thought. "Who's willing to give his life for this pretty elf-boy?" He received numerous glares from his companions.

"It's serious, Jack," said Will. His temper was barely in check. "I know we would all willingly make sacrifices if that's what it'll take to save Legolas."

"I be agreein' with Master Turner," said Barbossa. "The problem be how it can be done."

Leaving Paris to hold the blood-soaked bandage in place, Asatarë retrieved the Irminsul from Legolas' leather pouch. "There is a method which I learned in Aman, but it is what Cadogan and his brethren would call dark magic," he said. "It is a dangerous procedure, and if not done properly, lives will be lost."

"If it is not done, then one of us is bound to lose his life," said Balian. "This is a risk that I'm willing to take."

"Aye," said Will. "Tell us what to do, please."

Asatarë bade them all sit down, and then explained it all to them. As the Maia spoke, Gimli felt hope grow within him, and once again, he was reminded of just how important these people were to him. They might be of different races, and even worlds, but they were brothers all the same. Brothers united by friendship.

There was silence when the Maia finished speaking. All of them were contemplating just how big a risk they were taking. And then Gimli spoke up, voicing their thoughts. "Let's do it," he said.

* * *

**A/N: **Yes, this is all very outlandish. I hope it's not too outlandish. Tell me if you think I'm being ridiculous, and I hope you enjoyed the chapter all the same, despite the non-canon and non-scientific stuff.


	21. The Price of a Son

**Chance Encounter: Legacy of the Third Age**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything that you recognize. I'm just borrowing them without permission but with every intention of returning them when I'm finished, savvy?

**Chapter 20: The Price of a Son**

Asatarë looked at the men and dwarf gathered around him. They were so determined that trying to dissuade them would be impossible. "Not all of you can take part in this," he said. "You will be severely weakened after the procedure, and we need men to defend us."

All eyes turned to Achilles. "You're not going to be taking part," said Will to the Greek. "We need you to guard us."

"If you think I fear for my life, then you are sorely mistaken," said Achilles, glaring at the pirate. "Legolas is my friend also, do not forget."

"We don't doubt your courage and your loyalty," said Balian, "but you are the best fighter, and with the rest of us weakened, we'll need your skill to defend us. Paris, you are also not taking part."

"And why not?" demanded the Trojan prince.

"You're the only one who can use a bow," said Balian. "I know Jack and the others have their pistols, but they've run out of shots."

"Cadogan," said Asatarë. "We will need your skills as a healer after this."

"I will be glad to serve, Elder," said the druid, bowing.

So it was decided. Cadogan went off in search of herbs while Paris and Achilles, both united in indignation, went off to take their positions as guards. For once, their annoyance was not directed at each other, but at the others. However, they pushed their personal grudges aside. Deep down, they could see the reason behind such a decision. The last thing their wounded comrade needed was for them to bicker amongst themselves about such trivial things.

The Maia had retrieved the Irminsul from Legolas' leather pouch, and he now placed the glowing stone on the elf's chest. He ordered the others to put their hands on the stone. "You must touch the stone," he said. "It will join your life forces."

Balian flinched as his hand came into contact with the cold surface. It was so cold that it burned him. However, he did not move his hand away. As the others did the same, he could suddenly 'hear' their thoughts inside his head. There was Will, worrying about how Elizabeth and his children would cope should anything go wrong. Then there was Jack, wishing he could have more rum to steel his nerves and that the stone wasn't so 'bloody freezing'. Fulk's thoughts were full of doubts, but he wanted to contribute somehow. Gimli, on the other hand, was entirely focused on Legolas and praying to Mahal that he would once again be able to banter with his friend. It was unnerving to know what his friends were thinking, and the Frank felt more than just a little uncomfortable. The thought that they probably knew what he was thinking made him even more nervous.

Then he forgot all about that as Asatarë began to chant in an ancient tongue. His voice had grown deeper, and less like that of an old man. The light of the Irminsul surrounded all of them. And then Balian could see images of a great dark forest with a canopy so thick that it blocked out almost all the sunlight. He could see elven guards stationed around the base of a tree. One of them looked up and called out to someone in the canopy. There was only a hiss in reply.

The image changed. He was now in a grand stone hall, lit by many lamps. A majestic elven king sat enthroned, with a crown of golden leaves on his head. Immediately, he could see the family resemblance between the king and Legolas. 'This must be King Thranduil,' he realized. He was seeing Legolas' thoughts.

A dull ache began to grow in his side, corresponding to Legolas' wound. He could feel the elf's desperation as he tried to cling onto life. And then he felt himself growing weak as his life was drawn out of him and used to strengthen his friend. His breathing started to quicken. His thoughts mingled with that of his companions until he could no longer distinguish his thoughts from theirs. There was great confusion, but at the centre of it all was fear; fear that this would not save Legolas, fear that this would kill them all.

'Have hope,' Balian tried to tell himself—and his companions, but even he did not believe it. The pain was growing, as was the weakness in his limbs. His life force was going somewhere, and he hoped that it was going to Legolas.

And then it all stopped. The connection was broken and he could no longer hear his friends' thoughts. He opened his eyes and looked around. Everyone seemed to be as shaken as he was. His whole body ached as if he was falling ill. Actually, he did feel ill. There was a film of cold sweat on his face.

"Did it work?" Gimli managed to say. Even the dwarf's usually strong voice was shaking. Slowly, he turned to Asatarë. The Maia was leaning against a tree, for his body was too weak to support him. His face was as pale as new cheese.

"I hope it did," he said. "Or we will have taken this risk for nothing." Summoning his remaining strength, he reached out and felt for Legolas' pulse. There, it was steadier and stronger now, and although the poison was still in his body, he had the strength to fight it. He nodded to let the others know. "He will live," said the Maia.

There seemed to be a collective gasp of relief. Balian tried to get up, then he fell back with a groan. He had no strength left in him, it seemed. His limbs were shaking so much that he could hardly control them. He felt someone support him. It was Agnes. The girl had shifted so that her arm supported his neck and head, and she had put a cup to his lips.

"Drink," she said, trying to sound braver than she felt. She'd seen everything, and she'd been terrified. "Cadogan said it would help." She expected him to say something, but he simply obeyed her and took a sip.

As the liquid hit his tongue, he noticed that not even the honey and the mead could mask the medicinal bitterness of the other ingredients. He forced it down and took another sip. The liquid slid down his throat and seemed to light a fire in his stomach. Agnes was right; it did make him feel better, although nothing, save for time, would be able to help him to regain his former strength. He wasn't sure if they had that much time.

"Luv," he heard Jack croak to Anna-Maria. "Can you add some more mead to that? I think I deserve a decent dose."

"Do you ever stop thinking about your drinks?" Anna-Maria scolded him half-heartedly, but she did as he asked anyway. She could hardly refuse him now that he was lying here, all weak and exhausted from doing the right thing.

Paris had built a fire; he had a feeling that his exhausted friends were going to need the warmth. He would never admit it out loud, but he was now very glad that he had been excluded from the procedure. It had looked unpleasant at the very best. He added some more pieces of wood to the fire. The fuel was damp, but that could not be helped. There was nothing dry to be found for miles.

"Take care that you don't smother that fire," said Achilles. "It'll take a long time to start another one."

"I know exactly what I'm doing," retorted Paris acidly. Why must that Greek always treat him as if he was still a pampered spoiled younger son of a king? He'd been through much and fought many battles, even if they hadn't been big ones. Yet Achilles still insisted on belittling him. Of course, it was in the arrogant man's nature. What Briseis saw in him, Paris did not know. "If you're so knowledgeable, oh great Achilles, then why don't you help?"

"Someone needs to stand guard," said Achilles. "I don't see you doing it."

"That's because I'm lighting the fire, or do you want us all to freeze to death?"

"Quiet, you two!" said Elizabeth as she passed them. "You make so much noise that blind men would be able to find us without much trouble." The two men wisely kept silent after that. One did not defy Elizabeth Swann-Turner, especially not when she was in this mood.

The woman fussed over her weakened husband, who was trying, without any success, to convince her that he was fine. "If you're fine, Will Turner, then the Locker is Paradise," she said. "Now drink your medicine. Yes, all of it, Mr. Turner. I don't do anything by half-measures, and you know it." Will made a face, but he obediently drank all of the medicine in the horn.

"How's Legolas?" he asked.

"He's resting, I think," said Elizabeth. "It is too early to tell."

* * *

He could hear voices; a lot of voices. Foggy darkness surrounded him. There was light coming from somewhere, and he was trying desperately to get to it. The darkness seemed to drag him down like mud in a bog. The voices lent him strength, and he pushed through the shadows. The light was getting closer, and the voices were becoming clearer. There was great worry, and it was all directed at him. Well, most of it anyway. Someone was lamenting the lack of rum. Legolas had to be amused. _Jack._

Then there was something else. Ah, Balian was thinking of his son, and his dead wife...no, perhaps he didn't really want to know the details. He pushed that distraction aside. Why was he seeing all of these things?

"He's waking!" said an excited voice. It seemed so soft to his ears. The elf slowly opened his eyes. His vision was blurry, but he could make out a face staring down at him.

"Welcome back," said Paris. The elf blinked in confusion. His friend's voice was muffled and it sounded as if Paris was speaking from a great distance.

"What happened?" whispered Legolas. "I remember getting shot, and then there was only darkness."

"You were poisoned," said Paris. "Asatarë did something with life forces to keep you alive." Legolas heard Asatarë say something, but he couldn't make out what it was. There was something wrong with his hearing, and his sight was not improving either. He slowly flexed his fingers. Ai, there was no strength in his hands. He felt as limp as a dead fish.

"What did he say?" asked the elf, embarrassed that he needed to ask in the first place.

"He said he used the others' life forces to supplement yours so that you could survive long enough to recover," said Paris. "You could not hear him?"

"No," said the elf.

"Perhaps it's the poison," said Paris, squeezing the elven prince's hand. It was not hard to see the distress in his wounded friend's face. From his limited experience, he knew that the elves prized their senses. "I am certain that you will be fine very soon."

Legolas nodded. The movement was so slight that it was almost imperceptible. His eyes closed again. He felt so tired, as if he was mortal. He remembered Aragorn describing how it felt to be sick to him, and the way he felt now fitted that description very well. There was a headache hammering at his temples. He shivered. Why was it so cold?

Someone wrapped a blanket around him. "Can we move him closer to the fire?" he heard Briseis ask. It felt as if he was surrounded by a cocoon which blocked out sounds from outside. "He's shivering, and his hands are icy."

"That might not be wise," said Cadogan. "The wound is deep."

"But he'll die of cold otherwise," said the woman. That sounded odd to Legolas. Elves were not supposed to be as sensitive to the temperatures as mortals were, and they would certainly not freeze to death in this mild weather. What was the cold of Scotland compared to the cold of Caradhras? He remembered thinking that all his friends' complaints about the cold had been rather amusing and exaggerated. Surely the temperature could not have changed so drastically in such a short time.

"This isn't right," said Paris, voicing Legolas' thoughts. "Elves do not sicken as we men do. His head is hot to the touch. I think he's fevering up."

"There was iron on that arrow," said Cadogan, as if that explained everything. "The Immortal Folk can be seriously harmed by iron."

"Not these Immortal Folk," said Asatarë. The Maia had regained some strength. At least he no longer looked like a walking corpse. "It's the poison, as the young prince has said. I can only hope that the symptoms will fade with time."

* * *

They knew they could not stay. It was too dangerous. No doubt Ambrosius was still looking for them. Jack was still weaker than he would have liked to be, but with the help of Cadogan's medicine, and the druid's excellent mead, he was on the mend, just like the others. Of course, he was of the opinion that they were not recovering as well as he was just because unlike him, they weren't consuming enough alcohol.

"No, Jack," Will said when the pirate suggested that he drink more mead. "I would rather not have to deal with a headache."

"You have no right to talk, Whelp," Jack replied, grinning brightly. Yes, he was almost back to normal, or as normal as Captain Jack Sparrow would ever be. "You're a drinker of absinthe."

"I take a little nip every now and then," retorted Will, who was quite aware of what Elizabeth thought of his bad habit. "That hardly qualifies as a 'drinker'."

"I was not aware that alcohol had medicinal properties," said Fulk, looking rather confused. He had no idea what 'absinthe' was, and as a man who'd more or less lived a monastic life, he hardly drank any alcohol.

"It does if you're Captain Jack Sparrow," said Jack.

Legolas was still too weak to walk without support, but he was slowly regaining colour. However, he had remained silent and sombre. Gimli, who was his constant companion, suspected that he was still feeling the effects of the poison. "It's hard on you, isn't it, laddie?" he asked softly, when he was certain that most of the others were not listening. Paris, who was the one supporting the elf, glanced at the pair of friends and said nothing.

"I feel as if I've been blinded and deafened," said Legolas. "Is this how you mortals feel all the time?"

"I guess it would be," said Gimli. "We certainly cannot count the number of soldiers in a battalion when they are five leagues away."

"And we can't hear everyone's conversations," added Paris.

"Oh no, that I can do," said Legolas wryly. "Paris, can you please tell Will that I have no desire to know what he wants to do with Elizabeth once we're out of this mess?" He might have lost his keen senses, but the elf certainly had not lost his sense of humour.

"You can hear that?" asked Paris.

"One of the effects of that procedure, I believe," said Asatarë, turning to look at them. "They all gave him part of their life force, so he now has a link with them. That, I assure you, is temporary. Perhaps I should tell them to be careful with their thoughts." With that, he strode ahead and tapped Will on the shoulder. As the Maia whispered to Will, the young man's face turned bright red, and he could not meet Legolas' gaze.

"I am very glad indeed to have been left out of that procedure," said Paris. He pitied Will, for the English seemed to be very uptight about such things. Knowing that Legolas had been privy to his most private passionate desires must be very embarrassing for him. Even the Trojan, who considered himself to be very open about this sort of activity, felt uncomfortable.

"As am I," said Legolas. "I shudder to think what I might be seeing and hearing if I was privy to your thoughts."

"Are you insulting me, prince of Greenwood?" asked Paris in mock anger. Personally, he was rather glad to get Legolas talking again and to act more like his old wry self. At least it took the elf's mind off his ailment.

"Do you deny that you have an extraordinary knowledge of all matters carnal?" asked Legolas.

"Gentlemen!" cried Jack. "We have ladies present!" The pirate had seen the look of shock on Agnes' face, and he thought it would be a good idea to change the direction of such a conversation before the girl fainted.

"As if I have not heard such talk before, Jack Sparrow," Elizabeth retorted.

"Captain! It's _Captain_ Jack Sparrow! And it's official now. Even the King recognizes it!"

"Not my cousin, the King of France," said Balian, who was beginning to understand what his friends were trying to do. He sniffed the air. Despite the overwhelming earthy scent of wet dead leaves, he could smell something else; the sea. Oh, yes, Legolas would definitely need all the distraction they could provide. First the effects of the poison, and now Sealonging; that elf was going to be feeling terrible very soon.

"I mean King Elessar of Gondor, you buffoon!" said Jack.

"Then you should have said so," said Balian. "There are kings and there are kings, and not all of them are Aragorn."

"Don't forget," added Achilles, "he is also King Elessar of Arnor."

"Yes, I know that, oh great Captain of the Elite Guard."

"I have no doubt that by the time we get back, we'll all have been dismissed from our posts," said Elizabeth.

"He would not dismiss us, Lizzie," said Jack. He glanced back at Legolas. Yes, the elf was completely distracted and looking very amused. Good. "We established the navy and got him most of his ships, savvy? We even designed the flag, and named the ships."

"If I remember correctly, Aragorn was not too pleased about the ships' names," said Balian.

"What do you know? You were too busy training armies—" Jack stopped himself in midsentence. No, this was not a good thing to remind Balian about. "Not that we blame you," he quickly added. "The point is, we founded the Gondorian Navy, and being a good and just king, Aragorn wouldn't dismiss us just because we went missing for...how long have been here for now?"

"A few months," said Will. "Let's just hope that there were no pirate attacks on Gondor during the past few months."

"Even if there was, it shouldn't be a problem," said Jack in his usual off-hand manner. "We left Ragetti and Pintel behind...all right, so maybe there is a reason to worry."

"I'm sorry for interrupting the banter," said Paris from the back of the company. "But where are we headed for? We've got the Irminsul, and surely we are going to get rid of it."

"Get rid of it?" said Asatarë. "The Valar entrusted it into my care, and I would die before I let you smash it into a thousand smithereens."

"If I remember correctly," said Jack, "the Valar sent you here to guard the stone so that no one would be able to get it. If we, say, somehow found some miraculous method of putting an end to the existence of said stone, then no one would be able to obtain it for his own gain, and therefore you have fulfilled your task and thus be free to scurry back to wherever it is that you came from and be free of this tiresome wretched hellhole which we unfortunate mortals simply happen to know as Scotland, savvy?"

Asatarë fell silent for a few moments. So did everyone else. They were all trying to make sense of what the pirate had said, for he had spoken so quickly that they could hardly separate one word from another. Jack sighed. He really did feel that his talent was wasted on his simple and honest friends.

"You mean if we destroy the Irminsul, everyone will be happy?" said Gimli.

"Exactly!" cried Jack. "My dear friends, it has become apparent to me that you seem to take far too many moments to absorb the wisdom of my words, and that has led me to wonder how in the world you have managed to save said world from disaster so many times considering you, combined together, do not seem to have the capabilities of understanding seemingly simple language which just happens to flow from the mouth of this dashing scallywag—"

"Jack, please," said Balian, whose head was now reeling with the sheer number of words which needed processing. "Don't you ever get thirsty?"

"Why do I have the distinct feeling that I've just been insulted?" muttered Paris. He knew exactly what Jack was trying to say, and he sincerely wished that the pirate would be slightly more straightforward. It would save a lot of time and headaches.

"You _have_ been insulted, my dear prince," said Jack. "At least one of you noticed."

"Believe me, Jack, I knew before you even started talking," said Will. "You had that look on your face."

"I believe you still have not answered my question," said Paris. "Where are we going?"

"To the sea," said Asatarë. "Can you not smell it, young man? I was hoping to be able to get to Ireland, where it would be almost impossible to find us."

"I think Ambrosius would know we that we would try to head for wilder territories, and he would follow us," said Balian.

"I, for one, want to go back to Middle Earth," said Elizabeth. She missed Willie and Little Jane, and she wanted nothing more than to hold them in her arms again. No doubt they would be missing her and Will.

"Lizzie, we've got no way to get back to Middle Earth and you know it," said Jack.

"Not necessarily," began Balian slowly. He turned to Barbossa. "You said that to get to World's End, one needs to be truly lost at sea, am I correct?"

"Aye," said Barbossa. However, he looked just as confused as all the rest of them, with the exception of Legolas, who knew exactly what Balian was thinking.

"World's End seemed to be linked with all the other worlds, so if we can somehow get to World's End, then we would be able to get back to Middle Earth, with some help from Hector and Calypso, no doubt. Once we're back in Middle Earth, we can consult others as to what we should do with the Irminsul."

"That is the most outlandish idea I have ever heard, lad," said Gimli. "I like it."

"Then it is a pity that you will never get to try it." That voice made them stiffen, for they had been so busy talking that they had not noticed that they had been followed. Now, once again, they were surrounded.

Jack rolled his eyes and pulled out his pistol. Three more shots, and that was it. "I hate it when you turn up, Your Imminence," he said.

"Eminence," corrected Elizabeth automatically.

"Whatever," said Jack, rolling his eyes. "I ain't botherin' with callin' him by the right titles and whatnot because he ain't gonna be much when I'm through with him, savvy?" The pirate pointed his pistol at the cardinal. "So, if you'll excuse me, you unholy-cowl-wearin' bastard, you can simply just ride away on your little donkey all the way back to Rome and ne'er bother us again, or I could just put a lead ball right in the middle of yer forehead, savvy? It's all quite simple really, and either way suits me fine. I'm just givin' you the courtesy of choosin'."

"I think I would be the one giving you choices," said Ambrosius, "and you have two. Surrender and be judged in Rome, then be executed, or fight and die now. Your choice."

"Apologies," said Barbossa, who'd also pulled out his pistol. He'd been a bit wiser in that he'd saved just one more shot than Jack. "But I be thinkin' I like this third way a lot more." He didn't even wait for Ambrosius to respond, but fired just as he finished his sentence. Unfortunately for the old pirate, although not for Ambrosius, Barbossa still had not recovered his strength fully, and the pistol's recoil changed his aim just a little. Instead of hitting the cardinal in the centre of the forehead, as he had intended, the shot went through the cardinal's shoulder.

All hell broke loose, literally. The loud bang caused the horses to panic, creating a break in the ring of men which surrounded them. The rabble of heretics and pagans took their chance and ran through it before the soldiers could regroup. The soldiers gave chase, but the trees seemed to be against them, for they hindered the movement of the horses, snagging manes and legs on branches and roots.

Barisian clutched Balian's hand and tried his best to keep up. However, during the chaos, he lost his grip and became separated from his father. The boy tried his best to keep calm and out of the way of the fighting men. His father was there, and he was sure that he would be safe. And then someone grabbed him from behind and clapped a hand over his mouth so he couldn't scream.

"Balian!" shouted Ambrosius. His voice was thick with pain from his gunshot wound, but there was triumph also. "Look at what I have!"

Balian's heart almost stopped when he saw that the Inquisitors now had his son. He tried to lunge forward, but someone pulled him back. "Calm down," he heard Barbossa whisper into his ear. "He be tryin' to trap us. Rash actions will do you no good, Master Balian."

"He has my son!" said Balian through gritted teeth.

Ambrosius smiled. He had the key to controlling these heretics now. "If you want the boy back, then you must give me the Irminsul," he said.

Balian turned to Asatarë. His brown eyes bored into the Maia, begging him to save his son, but Asatarë did not even take out the Irminsul. "Think about it, young man," he said instead. "If he gets the jewel, the world we have worked so hard to protect will perish. I do not know the potential of this jewel, but combined with this man's greed, it would be a fearsome thing indeed."

"But my son—" said Balian. He was cut off in midsentence.

"If the sacrifice of one child can save all the children in the world, then perhaps it would be best for you to let go," said the Maia.

"How can you say such a thing?" demanded Balian. He took a step towards Asatarë. "Give me that jewel _now_. I won't leave my son to die!"

"My lord of Ibelin," called Ambrosius, "my patience grows thin. When you finish negotiating with your fellow heretics, I will be waiting in Rome." The cardinal nodded abruptly at his men, and they turned their horses around. They vanished into the trees, heading south-east, probably for the nearest port. Without horses, it would be impossible to catch up with them. Even if they did somehow manage to catch up with the Inquisitors, they were outnumbered, and it would be impossible to get Barisian back. They needed a plan.

"If that cardinal has any wit on him, he would not harm Barisian," said Elizabeth, trying to comfort Balian. "He knows that won't do him any good."

"But he won't wait forever," said the man softly. "If I don't bring him the Irminsul soon, I don't think I'll see my son again."

"Oh shut it," said Jack. "You're bringin' bad fortune down on us by sayin' all those depressin' things. That kid's smart; I taught him, remember?"

"We can't give him the Irminsul," said Paris, "but we're going to get Barisian back all the same. We rescued you from the grasp of Rome, Balian, and I think we can manage another raid."

"What if we fail?" demanded Balian. "You know what they'll do!" He sank to his knees and clutched his head. "I can't watch them kill my son in front of me...I've been such a failure. I've failed as a husband, a father..."

Seeing that Balian was on the verge of giving up all hope, Legolas knelt down beside him and placed a hand on his shoulder. "There is always hope," he said. "Have we not escaped from Hell itself? Have you not encountered death many times and yet lived to tell the tale? I believe that you and Barisian will be reunited. He is your son, after all, Balian. Have some faith in him."

"This time, they'll be prepared for a raid," said Achilles. "We're going to need an army."

"Just as well we have one at our disposal, then," said Will. Everyone turned to look at him.

"What on earth are you talking about, Whelp?" asked Jack. "You haven't been at the absinthe again while we've not been lookin', have you?"

"No, Jack," said Will, perhaps a little too quickly. "Who do we know has an army, and will do anything for a profit?" They stared at him, looking rather perplexed. He sighed. "Philippe of France, that's who. We can bargain with him; frighten him into helping us with our cause. Rome found it easy enough to persuade him. I don't see why we can't do the same."

"How are we to bargain with Philippe?" demanded Balian. "We have nothing, not even a single gold coin. He would more likely to execute us."

"We might not have any gold," said Will, "but we have the Irminsul and a Maia. I believe they can be very persuasive."

"That's all very well, Master Turner," said Barbossa. "But Philippe be in France, an' we be stuck in Scotland."

"Perhaps it's time to call on my brother again," said Paris.

* * *

**A/N: **More chaos is about to come. Then again, I'll bet you expected it. I hope you enjoyed the chapter.


	22. Negotiations

**Chance Encounter: Legacy of the Third Age**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything that you recognize; I'm just borrowing them without permission but with every intention of returning them once I'm finished, savvy?

**Chapter 21: Negotiations**

Balian's mind was in turmoil. He knew he ought to be calm for Barisian's sake, but all he could think about was how terrified his child must be at the moment. How was Barisian faring? He inwardly groaned. This had all gone so wrong. He would never forgive himself if anything happened to Barisian. He could see Sibylla's blue eyes as she had implored him to look after their son. He'd failed her.

The man clenched his fists so tightly that his fingernails dug into his palms, leaving crescent shaped imprints. God had abandoned him, or else He would not have taken his only remaining child away from him. His heart constricted as he contemplated the fact that he might not ever see his son again; at least, not alive. One son of his already rested beneath the cold ground. Was that not enough? He swallowed. No, he could not weep; he had to be strong for Barisian's sake.

Balian took a deep shaky breath, trying to calm himself down and clear his mind. Even with Hector's help, they would still need to find a way to convince Philippe to help them. His cousin had little care for common human emotions and not even the thought of one helpless little boy being held hostage by a cruel cardinal would gain his sympathy enough to make him send his army after said cardinal.

Gulls wheeled overhead in the cloudy grey sky. Surf crashed into gleaming black rocks, sending up a cold salty spray. Foaming waves surged onto the beach and then retreated again. His boots sank into the wet sand, and he angrily kicked at a bedraggled clump of washed-up seaweed, wishing that it was Ambrosius instead. How were they supposed to call Hector away from his otherworldly task? Would the prince hear them?

"There's nuthin' for it," said Jack, looking distastefully at the colourless beach. How he missed the golden sands of the Caribbean. "This is the only way we can get the knightling back." The pirate did not move. It seemed as if the brilliant Captain Jack Sparrow had finally run out of ideas.

Will waded out into the water, trying to ignore the cold which was seeping through to his bones and making him numb. The only way to call the master of the seas was to be at one with the sea. The water reached his waist, and then his chest. He ducked beneath the waves. Water currents buffeted his body. This water was nothing like the much milder Caribbean Sea. He hadn't expected it to be. 'This is the bloody Irish Sea,' he thought. The former captain of the _Flying Dutchman_ concentrated his thoughts and tried to think of the soul-bearing ship. 'Come on, Hector,' he thought. 'You have to hear me. We're desperate. Please...'

* * *

Barisian kept trying to tell himself not to be afraid, but he couldn't help it; he was terrified of these hard-faced men. They were like statues of ice. The boy closed his eyes and repeated the knight's code to himself, trying to believe it. He was sharing a horse with a huge man, and the man kept a firm grip on him. There would be no running; not yet, anyway. 'Must wait for the opportune moment,' he told himself. That was what his Uncle Jack-Jack had always said.

Dark shadows surrounded him, and he was sure that there was something else out there in the forest. Ghosts, perhaps, or worse. Barisian wished that his father was here with him; Balian could drive away all terrifying things and keep him safe. But his father was far away, somewhere behind him, and every moment took him further and further away from his Papa. Barisian blinked back tears. No, he would not cry and show these horrid men how frightened he really was. He would be fearless like his father, like Uncle Achilles. Of course, Uncle Achilles was never afraid because everyone was afraid of him.

He glared at the back of that old man wearing all the red and made a couple of very rude faces. That made him feel better, but not by much. What did pirates do when they were in trouble? He remembered Jack telling him about how to 'fight to run away', but that was not an option. He couldn't run, much less fight. But there had to be other ways. There were always other ways. Barisian wracked his brain for ideas.

Ah yes, the song. Uncle Jack-Jack had taught him that special song which pirates sang when they were in very big trouble. He glanced around him at all the armoured soldiers. This was big trouble. Quietly, he began to sing.

_The king and his men _

_Stole the queen from her bed,_

_And bound her in her bones..._

* * *

The sun was setting at World's End. It was never cloudy here, and it never rained. It didn't need to. Hector took his spyglass away from his eye; he'd finally learned how to use it. Everything was as it should be. He wondered how his wife was coping. Astyanax would be five by now, and probably as active as Hector had been when he had been a young child. He would keep his mother busy.

Then he stopped. There were voices on the wind. Someone was singing the Song. He listened carefully. The singer was a child. His heart constricted as he thought of his own son. There was another voice. That one he knew well. "Will Turner?" he whispered. Will was not singing, but trying to communicate with him. Somehow, his friends and his brother were in trouble yet again. Why was he not surprised?

He turned to Bootstrap, who was looking at him intently. This new captain was very easy to read. "Mr. Turner," said Hector.

"What orders, Cap'n?" asked the older man.

"We're going to the World of the Living."

* * *

Will could see a dark blurry shadow before him. He surfaced with a gasp, just in time to see the magnificent shape of the _Flying Dutchman_ surge out from the waves. The young pirate forgot about the cold and wet. His plan had worked! "Hector!" he shouted, waving madly. "Hector!"

"Will! What's going on?" asked the captain of the _Dutchman_. He didn't look any different from the last time they'd seen him, not that Will had expected any change. "What are you doing in the sea? You'll freeze!"

Boats were lowered, and everyone was rowed over to the ship. Bootstrap hurried over and wrapped a blanket around a soaking Will. "What were you thinking, William?" he asked.

"I...had...to..." said Will through chattering teeth. "Desper...desperate times...call for—"

"—desperate measures," said Bootstrap. "I know." He shook his head. Talking to Will would be very slow until he stopped shivering so violently. He ushered his son below deck to try and find some dry clothes for him, and perhaps some rum to warm him up. There was still one bottle left of Will's absinthe. No doubt he would appreciate some of that now.

"I'll go with him," said Elizabeth, hurrying after her husband and father-by-marriage.

"What's going on?" Hector asked again.

"They have my son," said Balian quietly. His voice broke and he struggled to contain his emotions. It was Paris who explained everything to Hector. The older Trojan prince was confused by the whole story surrounding the Irminsul, but he didn't ask for further explanations. The most important thing was getting Barisian back to his father.

Anyone sailing on the Irish Sea that day would have seen the most magnificent ship mankind had ever known up until this point heading south east. It sailed against the buffeting winds straight for the French coast.

* * *

Philippe of France paced in his tent. A great map had been spread out on the floor, and all his advisers were poring over it, focusing especially on Normandy and Aquitaine. Of course, the focus had always been there; that was a part of France which had fallen into English hands, and Philippe Auguste was determined to get it back. Richard had erected a new castle dangerously close to the border, and at a critical place, for it stood directly against another castle which Philippe had built. Such insolence was not to be tolerated. Crusader King though he might be, Richard did not have the noble blood of the Capetians running in his veins, and France —all of France— belonged to the house of Hugh Capet.

"Milord," said a soldier at the entrance of the tent. He bowed to the king. "There is a baron of Ibelin to see you. Shall I tell him that you are occupied and send him away?"

Baron of Ibelin? Philippe shook his head. He must be hearing things wrongly. Ibelin had been taken by the Saracens long ago, and the last baron had been his recently arrested cousin... "What did he say his name was?" demanded the king.

"He did not say, but he said you would know," replied the man.

"Send him in," said Philippe, and then he dismissed his advisers. It would be best to meet Balian without an audience. He had thought that Balian had already died by the cardinal's hands. It was as if God was watching over this man, protecting him for some unknown purpose. Why was he here? Philippe was no friend of his, and he must have known that it would be dangerous. 'The man is mad,' he decided.

"Cousin." Philippe turned around. There stood Balian, or rather, a great number of Balians. The king of France was at a loss for words, for there were three men who looked just like each other, and another one with exactly the same noble mien, save for the golden colouring.

"How...?" he whispered. "This is a bad dream."

"It's not a dream, Philippe," said the one at the very front. Yes, that was the real Balian, for Philippe recognized the scar down the side of his face. There were dark shadows underneath his eyes, as if he had not slept for a long time. "I've come to negotiate with you."

Philippe raised his eyebrow. "Unless you can help me to get Normandy and Aquitaine, I'm not interested in hearing it," he said.

"Forget Normandy and Aquitaine," said Balian. "If you do not listen to me and help us, not even _l'Ile de France_ would be yours."

This declaration, as ridiculous as it sounded, sent a shiver down the king's spine. He strove to hide his fear. "What do you mean?" he asked

Balian nodded at one of his companions, and old man with a strange pointed hat and a long grey beard. The old man pulled out a small leather pouch from the folds of his robes and then opened it. Cold blue light shone out. Curiosity got the better of Philippe, and he went to take a closer look. Inside the leather pouch was the most beautiful stone he had ever seen. He tried to reach out to touch its perfect smooth surface, but the old man quickly snatched back the stone.

"This jewel holds the key to world domination," said Balian. He knew that Philippe had been enraptured by the Irminsul's beauty, so it was possible that his cousin would believe his exaggerated claims. "The pagans called it the Irminsul."

_Irminsul_. That name sounded familiar to Philippe, but he simply could not place it. The younger man searched through his memory, trying to dredge up long forgotten lessons with his numerous tutors whom his father had hired for him. One of them had been adamant that he learned about Charles the Magnificent, the greatest king Christendom had ever seen.

"'tis the pagan artefact which Charlie supposedly destroyed, savvy?" said the strange man with dark skin and a lot of kohl. Not quite a Saracen, but Philippe could say with certainty that he wasn't a Frank. And 'Charlie'? Philippe had not heard the name before, but it sounded rather undignified for a man such as Charles the Magnificent. Looking the man up and down, the young French king decided that this was a man who did not care about the dignity of people with status. He was now grinning smugly at Philippe, and the king could see a few gold teeth.

"Now you see why we need your help," said Balian, interrupting Philippe's appraisal of Jack Sparrow. His cousin could wonder about his friends later. There were more important things to worry about at the moment. "That cardinal wants this stone for his own gain, and he has my son. I need you to stop him before he manages to reach Rome."

"And in return, you'll give me the Irminsul?" asked Philippe. There was a gleam in his eye.

"Most certainly not," said Jack, pushing in front of Balian. Considering how tired the Frank looked, he probably was not in the right mood to negotiate properly. "In return for your aid in returnin' the knightling to his father, I would say that we would make certain that the unholy cowl-wearin' bastard —better known as His Eminence the Cardinal Ambrosius de Magio— does not get his paws on this shiny stone and you'll be free to blast England 'til kingdom come without fear for any interruptions. How's that for a bargain, eh?"

Philippe stared at Jack. So did everyone else. He had spoken much too quickly and his sentence structures were much too complicated. The pirate's face fell as he realized that no one had understood what he'd just said. "Don't say that my genius is wasted on you too," he begged, putting his hands together as if he was praying and looking at Philippe.

"Jack, I don't have any time for this," growled Balian. "So will you help us, Cousin? Consider this repayment for your betrayal."

"If you had been in my place, would you not have done the same?" said the king of France. "You were my rival, Balian; you still are. Just because I will help you this time does not mean that I will not hunt you in the future. I am only doing this because I have no wish to be under the yoke of a sorcerer."

* * *

The flickering firelight reminded Barisian of all the times he'd sat before the hearth at home, playing with his father's hounds. He held his hands out to the fire, trying to absorb the warmth. Even this fire looked different from the fires which his father built. What little bread and water he'd been given had not been enough to satisfy him. He thought of all the good things that he'd eaten in his short life, and wondered if he would taste them again.

'Papa is coming for me,' he told himself. The little boy glanced around at the dark forest surrounding them, wondering if his father was just out there, waiting for the right moment. Tomorrow, they would be heading for Rome. Someone mentioned going to France first, to borrow supplies from King Philippe. The sheer number of kings made Barisian's head reel. There was King Richard, and his Papa didn't like him. There was King Philippe, who was supposed to be Papa's cousin. Then there were the five Kings of Jerusalem —all called Baldwin— whom his Papa had forced him to learn about. The only kings Barisian actually knew well were King Elessar and King Éomer, and he wished they were here. They would make all those nasty men afraid.

That made him think of the song he'd sung. Hadn't Uncle Jack-Jack said that if a pirate sang that song, help would come? Where was the help? He'd been waiting for a very long time now, and still there was nothing.

"What are you looking at, runt?" snapped one of the men. "Keep your eyes down, demon spawn. You should be ashamed of yourself."

"I ain't done nuthin' wrong," protested Barisian, jumping to his feet. He hated being called 'runt'. For one, he wasn't one, because he was a big boy.

"You're a filthy heretic. You're going to burn in Hell and you know it, so don't argue the point," said the man.

Barisian put his hands on his hips and glared right back at the knight. "I _is_ arguin' the point," he said in the loftiest tone he could manage, just as Jack had taught him. He pursed his lips and stared down his nose at the knight. "Yer all goin' ta be blasted into teeny weensy little bits when my papa gets here, an' the Cap'n will nail yer gizzards to the mast, ya poxy cur!"

The knight lunged for him, but another man held him back. "You can't touch the whelp," he said. "We need him to make his heretic of a father come to us."

"I ain't no whelp!" shouted Barisian. These people were so rude! "I'm a pirate an' a bloody scallywag, savvy?"

Silence fell as all the men in the camp turned to look at the feisty child. Like father, like son, except the son seemed even more remarkable. It took a lot of courage for such a small boy to speak out against a hundred or so hostile men. And calling himself a pirate? Why would he even do such a thing?

"How interesting," said Ambrosius, coming over to where Barisian was standing. The old man's arm was in a sling, but that did not detract from the air of authority which surrounded him. Barisian turned to face him. So this was the nasty church man who had hurt his papa. The boy stuck his nose in the air. "You have your father's spirit, your highness, and perhaps your mother's arrogance."

Barisian stopped putting on his act. "My mother?" he asked. He had no memory of his mother, except a few scattered images. His father had said that she was beautiful and brave, and that she had blue eyes, just like Barisian. The boy knew her name, but that was about as much as anyone would tell him. His papa had promised to tell him the whole story when he was older. How did this man know the secret?

"Your father did not tell you?" Ambrosius knelt down beside the boy. This would be interesting.

"He said he'd tell me when I'm all grown up," said Barisian.

"For shame, that is not very fair of him," said Ambrosius. "Do you want to know?"

Curiosity got the better of Barisian, and he forgot that these men were very rude and nasty. He nodded. "You know the story?"

"Everyone knows the story," said Ambrosius. "Your mother, my boy, was a queen..."

As Barisian listened, he became more and more confused. Why did his father take him away? Didn't his papa want him to be king? It certainly seemed like it. Was Papa afraid that he would be better than him? But his father loved him more than anyone else in the world. "Why didn't he want me to be king?" he asked Ambrosius.

"That I cannot say," said the old man, further raising the boy's suspicions. Inwardly, he smiled. Even if Balian did get his son back, he would not be the same son who had been taken away. 'Consider that my revenge,' thought the cardinal. Right now, the child might brush it aside, but when he grew older, he would begin to question.

* * *

Night had fallen. No star shone tonight. Hector had said that the cardinal was sailing for the French coast, and as the master of the sea, he would know. Philippe had been shocked to see the _Flying Dutchman_, and that made him a much more complacent ally. "That ship can destroy an entire city," Jack had told the French king, and Philippe had believed his gross exaggeration.

Waves lapped the beach of Calais. Will kept his spyglass trained on the sea, looking for the dark shape of a ship coming from England. The _Dutchman_ was floating just off-shore, also waiting. There was a line of messengers from the ship leading all the way back to where the others were waiting, making it easier for them to communicate. "Is there any way I can borrow that ship for my next move against the Plantagenets?" Philippe was asking.

"I don't believe so, Your Grace," said Elizabeth. She was unfazed by the royal presence. Had she not dealt with enough noblemen in her lifetime? This was what she had been trained to do. "Captain Assaracus is the master of the seas. He answers to no one except the goddess Calypso. Mortal men cannot control him."

"And yet, he came to your aid when you called for him," said Philippe. How had his cousin gotten involved with people such as these? Not only did they have superior weapons, but they also had the ear of supernatural beings.

"That's what friends do," said Elizabeth. She did not even bother to look at the king. Let him feel offended if he wished. That was of no consequence to her. She gripped her sword tightly. Poor Barisian must be so terrified. She glanced over to where Balian was pacing to and fro on the sand. His anxiety was affecting everyone, and it was not helping. Elizabeth went over to him and stopped him in the middle of his pacing. "Calm down," she said. "Barisian will be fine. We'll get him back."

"Would you be calm if this was your son instead of mine in the company of those Roman wolves?" demanded Balian. "Who knows what they have done to him. I am trapped in the torments of uncertainty, and you tell me to calm down?"

"Well, you're making us all panic," snapped Elizabeth. Did he think that she wasn't afraid for Barisian as well? She loved that boy as much as she loved her own children. "That isn't helping!"

"The last thing Barisian needs is for us to argue amongst ourselves," interrupted Paris. "Balian, think about it. Pacing and yelling isn't going to make Ambrosius let your son go." His words made the two of them stop.

"I'll go keep an eye on Jack," said Elizabeth. Her temper was gone. Paris was right, as he usually was. Their anxiety was making them do irrational things.

Balian looked away and tried to control the surge of emotion within him. What if they didn't get Barisian back? What if the raid was a failure, and he was left with choosing between the Irminsul and his son? It was so tempting to simply take the Irminsul and trade it for Barisian, but that did not go well with his conscience. He could not betray the world in order to save his son. 'God, give me strength,' he prayed. There was no choice. If the raid failed, then Barisian would die, for he could not let Ambrosius take that jewel.

A whisper pulled him out of his dark thoughts. "They're here," said Legolas. "I can see that in Will's thoughts." Balian whipped around, and his hand flew to the hilt of his sword. Legolas looked at him knowingly, and suddenly, in his head, he could hear the voice of the elven prince telling him to calm down. 'Haste will only worsen our situation,' Legolas was saying.

"What would you have me do?" asked Balian. "My son is on that ship!"

"Hector cannot participate in this," said Legolas. "Firstly, that would be against his designated task. Secondly, it would be too dangerous to open fire on that ship."

"You know all this?" asked Balian.

"He's busy telling Paris all that," said Legolas. "I'm just relaying the message." The elf looked away. "I wish I could do more, but I lack strength, and I can hardly see that ship in this dark night." He slammed his fist into his palm. "I feel so useless."

"Don't be that way, Legolas," said Balian. In his frustration, he had forgotten that his friend had been dealing with this mysterious ailment. "Asatarë said it should be temporary."

"Many things in the world do not happen as they should have happened," said Legolas. "But don't mind me. Saving Barisian is more important at the moment. Once they land, they will be vulnerable as they get off the ship. That is the time to attack, or at least, that is what Jack thinks. We cannot let them know that you are after Barisian because otherwise they will use him against you. Let them think that they are simply being raided by French soldiers."

"What if it fails, and they do hold Barisian hostage?"

"Then we'll have to improvise."

The splashing sound of oars hitting water drew closer, and the dark shadow grew larger as the ship neared the shore. There were only a few lanterns at the prow. Balian slowly drew his blade from its sheath. As the ship cut into the sand, men suddenly sprang from their hiding places behind rocks and sand dunes. Arrows flew in every direction. In the dark, it was difficult to tell who was friend or foe.

Balian hurried for the ship, cutting down anyone who looked as if they might stand in his way. "Oi!" he heard Jack cry as he swung his sword in a wide arc. "Watch it! You almost removed me hat!"

"Sorry!" Balian shouted. "I'm in a bit of a hurry at the moment!" The two men raced to the ship and clambered up the rungs on the side. Jack ducked just in time as one of the Inquisitors took a swipe at him and escaped unharmed, but the same could not be said of Jack's hat.

"You asked for it," growled the pirate. "No one touches me hat and gets away with it!" He leapt into the melee in his own distinct drunken manner and began weaving in and out of enemy ranks, darting in here and there to score a blow or two. He created more confusion than harm, but that was what he was aiming for. In the chaos, no one would notice if someone tried to search the ship for the knightling.

"Jack!" screamed Anna-Maria, who had also clambered onto the chaotic deck of the ship. She couldn't see much in the dark, although she could hear the pirate captain quite clearly.

"Gentlemen, we be takin' over this ship," drawled a familiar sarcastic voice. Barbossa had arrived, and Elizabeth was right on his heels. A few soldiers flew across the deck and crashed into the mast. It seemed as if Asatarë had made his way to the ship as well.

Balian made for the hatch which led below deck. At least, he thought that was the hatch. He pulled his hand back just as an axe fell on the spot where his hand had been. Without waiting for the axe-wielder to pull his weapon out of the wood, he struck out with a fist. It connected with someone's face, and also the metal nosepiece of a helmet. Balian swore and shook his aching hand.

* * *

Barisian scrambled up when he heard the explosion of noise. He had been sitting on the floor of Ambrosius' cabin, quietly digesting the story which the cardinal had told him. It went against everything he had ever believed. However, the sounds of fighting above deck drove all thoughts of kings and princesses out of his mind. He had been right; his father had come for him at last.

"Bugger!" he heard someone shout. Jack.

"Uncle Jack-Jack!" he cried, and then he risked glancing back at the cardinal. The old man's face was white; whether it was with anger or with fear, Barisian could not tell. "Are you going to let me go now?" the boy asked the old man. So far, the cardinal had been good to him.

"Let you go?" said Ambrosius. "Perhaps not, your highness." He grabbed the child by the throat. "I have to bargain with your father." Barisian kicked and struggled and tried to scream, but the iron grip on his neck was too strong. He could not breathe. Everything was beginning to grow dark. And then the fingers around his throat loosened, and he fell to the wooden boards. The boy thought about running, but before he could put his plan into action, an arm was hooked around his neck and he could feel the cold hard edge of a knife against his throat.

"If you move, I will cut you here, and not even your father will be able to save you," hissed the cardinal's voice. "So, why don't you be a good boy, your highness, and stay very, very still?"

Barisian could hear his own heartbeat thundering in his ears. He'd never been so frightened. The boy managed a very small nod. "Good," said Ambrosius. With that, he strode up the steps which led to the deck, taking Barisian with him.

* * *

"Stop this madness!"

Silence fell. Balian turned around at the sound of that much despised voice. Ambrosius stood at the entrance of the main cabin. His arm was hooked around Barisian's neck, and he was pointing a knife at the boy. "Drop your weapons," commanded the cardinal, "or the boy goes to meet his mother in Hell." The remaining Inquisitors formed a protective ring around the cardinal and his young hostage. "Do it, Ibelin," said Ambrosius. "Or are you really cold-hearted enough to watch your son die before your eyes? Will you be another John Marshal and say that you have the hammer and anvil to forge more sons?" The cardinal laughed at his own little jest.

Anger clouded Balian's thoughts, and he could not stop himself from shaking. He wanted nothing more than to take the head of that arrogant ungodly churchman and place it on a pike, but he was no John Marshal, and he could not bear the thought of watching his son die. Left without much choice, he laid down his sword.

"Balian!" hissed Jack. He had known something like this would happen. The pirate looked around helplessly.

Elizabeth glanced at Will, who was standing to her left. Her husband looked as if he was about to surrender as well. She stepped on his foot, hard, catching his attention. She made a few odd gestures at him, pointing first to herself, then to Asatarë, then to him, and then finally miming catching something. Understanding passed between them, and he gave her a subtle nod before nudging Achilles with his elbow to pass the message on to the Greek. Moving slowly so as to attract as little attention as possible, Elizabeth made her way towards Asatarë. "Give me the rock," she whispered. The Maia looked at her as if she was mad. "Do it! I promise I'll give it back."

Asatarë gave her a wary look, but he passed her the leather pouch which held the jewel. She reached inside and flinched as her fingers brushed the smooth icy facets of the stone. She pulled her hand out and then turned the leather pouch inside out so that it formed a glove over her hand. The jewel was now contained in her fist.

"Hey!" she shouted. "If you want the Irminsul, then you've got to catch it!" She flung the jewel as high as she could into the air. It flew like a cold blue star into the black night sky. Everything was forgotten as the men strove to catch the shining jewel.

* * *

**A/N: **Due to unforeseen circumstances, there might be some missed updates in the future. My old computer, after four years of faithful service, is dying on me, and I'm not sure when I will get my new computer. So, if I do miss an update, you'll know what's happened.


	23. One of Them

**Chance Encounter: Legacy of the Third Age**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything that you recognize; I'm just borrowing them without permission but with every intention of returning them when I'm done, savvy?

**Chapter 22: One of Them**

Ambrosius dropped Barisian as he tried to lunge for the Irminsul. Every other man also tried to lunge for the Irminsul, with the exception of Balian, who threw himself through the crowds in an attempt to get his son. He snatched Barisian off the wooden boards of the deck and hugged the boy to him. The child buried his face against his father's shoulder. The tears finally flowed.

The Irminsul hung for a moment in mid air, and then it began to fall. Using the kneeling Achilles' shoulder as a launching point, Will gathered all his strength and leapt into the air, reaching for the shining jewel. His fingers closed about the cold rock, and he resisted the urge to drop it. 'If I get frostbite, someone is going to pay,' he thought. The pirate captain landed on his feet and then quickly dropped the stone into his pocket. He shook his hand to make sure that it had not frozen. Now they had both child and stone back, but they still had one other problem; they were surrounded yet again.

A loud boom rang out, followed by a high-pitched whistle which drew closer and closer to them as a cannonball sped their way. The missile just missed the ship and landed in the water some distance away, sending up a spray of brine. On board the _Dutchman_, Bootstrap looked on, rather pleased with his efforts. The captain wasn't allowed to interfere, but Calypso never said anything about crew members participating.

The soldiers all stared at the place where the cannonball had fallen. They had never seen anything like it. Some of them began shouting prayers in Latin and talking of the Apocalypse. The Irminsul, the heretics and the hostage were all forgotten as they all tried to save themselves from the wrath of God.

Balian wasted no time in taking advantage of the chaos. Not even bothering to try and make for the ladder, he vaulted over the railings of the ship, with his son clinging to him. The wet sand and shallow water broke his fall as he landed. He scrambled to his feet and shook his head to clear his face of water. "Run, Bari!" he hissed before going back to try and help his friends escape.

"Land ahoy!" shouted the boy as he raced for the beach. This nightmare was turning out to be rather exciting after all. He only wished that the water wasn't so cold. Hands grabbed him, and he was about to scream when a reassuring voice murmured into his ear.

"Don't scream," said Gimli. "It's me." The dwarf took Barisian to where Legolas was waiting. The elf was deemed too weak to participate in the raid, and much to his chagrin, he was put in charge of preparing blankets, food and medical supplies.

"I thought you would be up at the ship," said the elf. He couldn't help teasing his friend. "Was the gang plank a bit too high?"

"Oh, quiet, you pointy-eared elvish princeling," grumbled Gimli. It was not his fault that dwarves were short. Anyway, being short meant that one had better balance. Of course, no one could have better balance than an elf. He'd learned that long ago. He set Barisian down on the floor of the tent and then hurried to find blankets. Legolas appeared at his side with several.

"You told me to get these ready," he said to Gimli as he wrapped one around the boy's shivering frame. "And I have." He ushered Barisian over to the coal brazier. "Now, you stay there until you stop shivering, young man. I won't have you dying of cold after we spent so much effort and time trying to save you."

Gimli attempted to hide a snort of laughter with a fit of coughing, but he was none too successful. Legolas could read his mind. "You can stop calling me Nurse Legless, Master Dwarf," he growled. "Or else you will regret it when I am recovered." Legolas did not seem as amused as his dwarvish friend.

"I would not dare call you that once you are recovered," Gimli assured him. "But for now, I might enjoy myself with the thought, since you can hardly do anything."

"Careful, Gimli," said Legolas. His eyes glinted dangerously. "The body might be weak, but the mind is as strong as ever before. I don't need to be strong to make your life utterly miserable."

"Aye, but you wouldn't make my life miserable," said Gimli. He grew serious again. "We might have escaped from the clutches of that cardinal, but I don't think this king will let us go graciously."

"Me neither," said Legolas. "However, since Asatarë is with him, I feel slightly better. If there is anyone who can convince Philippe that keeping us would not be a good idea, it would be a Maia.

* * *

Philippe was getting rather disconcerted. Why was that old man watching him like that, and didn't he ever blink? The king of France tried his best to ignore that strange old man while he discussed his next plan of action with his advisors. They were rather surprised that he had chosen to attack a ship carrying a cardinal. Of course Philippe couldn't tell them the truth; they would think he was meddling with sorcery otherwise, and that was never a good thing for a Christian king. He cursed his cousin; why did Balian always get involved in strange things? He was getting rather frightened of his cousin. Just earlier, he had heard what sounded like the end of the world, and no one had been able to explain to him just what had been going on off the French coast. That did not improve his mood at all.

He wanted that stone. Whatever it was, Philippe was certain that it would help him to achieve what he had always wanted to do; reclaim Normandy and Aquitaine for the French crown and break England's power forever. Christian though he might be, Philippe wasn't averse to using whatever means necessary to get the power that he wanted. Pagan or not, that stone was useful, if only as something to threaten the overly powerful papacy with.

* * *

Ambrosius could not believe how badly this had all gone. He had not expected to be attacked on French shores, and by so many men as well. Had Philippe gone mad? He had lost his hostage, and the Irminsul. How in the world had those heretics managed to get to France so quickly? They had had no ship, and no funds. Someone was going to pay for this, and it wasn't going to be him.

"Get that stone!" he shouted to his men. "They will use it to open up the Gates of Hell and release Satan into this world! God, have mercy on us! Armageddon is nigh!" The remaining Inquisitors leapt off the ship in pursuit of the heretics. At the mention of 'Hell', 'Satan' and 'Armageddon', Philippe's soldiers began to panic. None of them wanted to be damned for helping those who would bring about the end of the world. They had been reluctant to help the king's heretical kinsman in the first place. They turned on the heretics. Perhaps that would redeem them in the eyes of God.

Jack hated situations such as these, not because he couldn't escape from them, but because they were always so messy. He ducked as someone took a swipe at him, almost taking off his head. He'd already lost his hat, and he did not want to lose anything else. Men surrounded him, and he had no idea what direction he was supposed to go in. He supposed he didn't care as long as he could get out of here. As he fought, he caught sight of the cardinal, who was busy trying to direct his men. "Damn you, you bloody diabolical jewel-bedecked unholy excuse for a churchman!" hollered Jack, hoping that his insult would not be wasted. "Damn you to the eighteen hells and back!"

"Firstly, Jack, there's only one hell!" shouted Will. "Secondly, we want him to go to hell and not come back! Thirdly, stop wasting your breath!"

"Well, William, why don't you take your own advice then, eh?" said Jack. "Anyway, the Chinese have eighteen hells, savvy?" Wielding one of these cumbersome long swords had to be one of his worse experiences. The momentum of one particularly wild swing overbalanced him, and he crashed into Gimli. As he did so, the sword flew out of his hand. It spun lazily as it flew through the air, and landed tip-down in the sand, just an inch from Ambrosius' toes.

"You missed, Sparra!" shouted Barbossa. There was a hint of glee in his voice. Only Barbossa would be able to rejoice at Jack's failure at time like this. No one knew what exactly he had in mind, except Legolas, who had direct access to his thoughts. The old pirate was making his way closer and closer to the cardinal, instead of struggling to go in the other direction like most of the others. Of course, he was not alone. Achilles seemed to have a similar idea.

The Greek was in his element, having perfected his skill with long swords long ago. He thrust forward. The tip of his sword opened a gash in his opponent's surcoat, but the armour deflected the rest of the blow. Achilles really hated chainmail when he wasn't the one wearing it. He dropped suddenly and while the man was unprepared, struck at his relatively unprotected legs. The man screamed as he went down. Blood spurted from the stump of his leg in time to his heartbeat. Achilles wasted no more time. He surged forward, straight for Ambrosius. However, killing him was too easy, and if anyone deserved revenge, it was Balian. He grabbed the cardinal by the back of his robes. "You, milord, are coming with me," he hissed, hooking his arm around the old man's neck.

Inquisitors charged, but they stopped when Achilles pointed his sword at Ambrosius' neck. "You come forward, and I'll cut off something," he said. Not that he would do that, but there was no harm in threatening his enemies. "My argument is not with you. Move aside!"

"I was goin' ta get 'im," muttered Barbossa as he caught up with Achilles.

"It's all the same, isn't it?" said the Greek. He and Barbossa 'escorted' Ambrosius back to where the others had gathered.

Philippe and his advisers had come out to watch the chaos. If anything, it had gotten even messier. They had never seen someone threaten a cardinal before, and it was an inconceivable idea, at any rate. These were madmen; there was little doubt about that.

The Inquisitors were at a loss as to what they should do. Some of them wanted to attack the heretics, while others just wanted to go back to Rome to report back to the Pope. They all knew that they could not let harm come to the cardinal, but now that he was in the hands of Ibelin and his accomplices, there was very little chance that Ambrosius de Magio was going to get away unscathed.

"Hector wants us all to go onboard the _Dutchman_," said Legolas, who was still reading minds. "He's talking to Fulk and Paris about it. Paris is coming to relay the message. We might as well save him the trip."

All of them surrounded Ambrosius. Not once did Achilles let go of his prisoner. "Move," he hissed into the old man's ear.

"You will regret this," snarled Ambrosius.

"I don't think so," said the Greek, giving the cardinal a violent shove. He was not inclined to treating this man with much kindness, especially since this was the one who had caused them all so much pain.

"Wait!" That shout stopped them all in their tracks. The king of France had finally decided to take action. The French soldiers surrounded them. "I want no quarrel with you, Cousin," he said, as if Balian was the only one present. "But I cannot let you take a cardinal prisoner on my land."

"We're heretics, Philippe," said Balian. "Say you tried to stop us, but you couldn't."

"That is an option, yes, but you still owe me for helping you to get your son back." Philippe held out his hand. "I want that stone."

"Just because you want it doesn't mean you're going to get it, Your Majesty," said Elizabeth. She looked at Asatarë. The Maia was incensed, but he knew he could do nothing except show off a few tricks to scare the king. Killing a king would count as a very big interference, and Manwë would not be pleased about that.

"Then I am afraid that I am going to have to resort to less civilized measures, my good dame," said Philippe. His mock apologetic tone made Elizabeth clench her teeth and wish that she had not used up all of her shots. She truly did want to put a lead ball through the French king's skull at the moment.

"In that case, Philippe," said Balian. "You can explain to your people why the apocalypse started on the shores of France."

'Tell Hector to fire the guns,' he thought to Legolas. The elf gave the slightest of nods and passed the thought along to Fulk, who tried his very best to convey his message to the captain of the ghostly ship, despite the fact that he had no idea what 'guns' and 'cannons' were.

Although Hector was a little reluctant to interfere, Bootstrap Bill and the other sailors had no qualms whatsoever. Many of them had been pirates in their former lives and old habits died hard. At any rate, Calypso would probably not bother to punish them; the goddess of the sea was partial to a bit of chaos every now and then.

Loud consecutive booms rang out, followed by high pitched whistles as the cannonballs sailed through the air. Men screamed in fear and invoked the name of God, to no avail. Columns of sea spray were sent up as the cannonballs landed in the water. Asatarë sent up a few balls of fire into the night sky to enhance their fear. As long as he did not kill anyone, the Valar would not care. While the soldiers were distracted, the heretics took their chance and headed for the sea. The progress was slow, because Ambrosius kept on trying to resist, but they finally reached the edge of the sea, where there were boats waiting to take them over to the _Dutchman_.

"You knew where we were waiting?" said Paris, who was on one of the boats.

"Of course," said Legolas, tapping his head with his finger.

"But you can't read my mind. I didn't take part in the procedure."

"Fulk did, and he's still on the _Dutchman_, is he not?"

"It is eerie how you know what we're thinking," said Will as he helped Elizabeth into one of the boats. "I for one would be glad when this particular side effect wears off."

"I will be very glad when all the side effects wear off and I am back to normal," said Legolas quietly. For the past few days, he had been hiding his distress in the face of even greater troubles, but each time he woke up and found that he could not see far and could not hear much, he lost more hope. It had been many days since he had received his wound, and if the effects of the poison were to fade, they should have faded a long time ago.

"I have complete confidence that you will be back to normal very soon," said Will, noticing the elf's withdrawn expression. "Besides, once we get back to Middle Earth, Aragorn would know how to heal you even if you cannot recover on your own."

"I pray that what you say is true," said Legolas. He shook his head. What would it be like to spend eternity with the senses of a mortal? It would do no good to ask his friends, because they have never had superior senses, and therefore they had nothing to compare with. He missed being able to run lightly along the ground without leaving footprints. He missed being able to see and hear better than everyone else in the company. Most of all, he missed being able to tell his friends when there was danger approaching while it was still far away for them to escape it. What use was he now?

Achilles shoved the captive cardinal onto the deck of the _Dutchman_. "Lock him up in the dungeons," he said.

"The _brig_," said Jack, automatically correcting him. "There ain't no dungeons on ships."

"You got Barisian back?" said Agnes, who had been waiting on the ship. She was awfully relieved that the others were back, for it had been terrifying to stay alone on a ship which was crewed by undead men, even though she had been told repeatedly that the captain was actually a saint. He did not look like any saint which she had seen in the paintings in churches. For one, he did not have a saintly halo.

"Aye, I'm back!" cried Barisian, as excitable as ever.

"We say—" began Balian.

"—yes," Barisian finished for him. "I know, Papa, but we're on a ship! We're on the _Dutchman_, and real sailors say 'aye', don't they, Cap'n?" He turned to Barbossa.

"That be right, ya wee scallywag," said Barbossa, grinning and showing crooked yellow teeth.

"We can teach him when we get back to Minas Tirith," whispered Will to Balian. "For now, just be glad that he is still that cheerful little boy who got kidnapped."

"It is some consolation that his time with His Eminence seems to have had no lasting effect," said Balian. "But I do wish he would talk less like a pirate."

"Speaking of His Eminence," said Will loudly so that everyone could hear him. "What are we going to do with him?"

"Let justice be served," said Barbossa. His eyes hardened as he tightened his grip on his sword.

"Let us be avenged," said Achilles.

"That's all very well," said Jack. "But the question is 'how'?" He looked around. "Now, I'm not sayin' that I don't want to pay 'im back fer all that he's done, but we need to think up something a little more creative than lettin' him walk the plank, savvy?"

"Why don't you let his key victim decide?" said Elizabeth, turning to Balian. "I believe our friend deserves a say in this, and he hasn't said anything yet."

As all eyes turned to him, Balian began to wish that they had simply killed Ambrosius and not taken him captive. This was a difficult decision. One side of him knew that he ought to forgive the cardinal as he had forgiven Guy. On the other hand, Ambrosius had hurt him more than Guy ever had. "I wish to speak to him first," he said.

Knowing everything that was going on inside Balian's mind, Legolas raised his eyes to the dark sky. Of course his gentle friend would want to see if the cardinal had repented, and if he had, the elf had no doubt that Balian was going to be his usual forgiving self.

* * *

The brig was damp, even though it was clean, for a brig. Ambrosius sat in the corner, leaning against the bars. He was very uncomfortable. That wound on his shoulder still ached, and the rough treatment which he had received at the hands of that big barbarian had probably reopened the injury. Many plans were running through his mind. He could not go back to Rome now. Things had gone too far for that. If the other cardinals ever found out about the truth, they would have his head. Everyone envied his power. However, he was not about to submit to being a prisoner of heretics. If he was going to die, then someone was going to go down with him.

He heard footsteps as someone came down below deck. It was one of the sailors. "The Cap'n wants you up on the deck," he said coldly as he fitted the key into the lock and opened the door of the brig. The man hauled the cardinal to his feet and more or less shoved him to the hatch which led out to the deck. He realized that he had been down there for quite a long time, as the sun was already high in the sky.

The cardinal was thrown down before the gathered heretics. He looked up to see Balian staring down at him. The man's face was unreadable.

Balian clenched his fists to prevent himself from doing anything rash. As he looked down on the pathetic form of Ambrosius de Magio now cowering at his feet, he remembered the pain and humiliation he had suffered at the hands of this man. Hatred welled up, but there was pity also. Ambrosius had probably spent his life coveting power, and yet, he had never found what was truly most important in life, and that was integrity.

There was silence on the ship as everyone watched what was going on between these two men. "Is Papa going to kill him?" Barisian whispered to Agnes.

"I don't know," said the young woman, never taking her eyes off the sight. There was satisfaction in seeing their tormentor reduced to this. She wondered what Balian was going to do.

It was Ambrosius who spoke first. "I've wronged you," he said, and his voice was pathetically coarse. He knew he sounded worse than a beggar in the alleys of Rome, but this was all part of the act. He crawled closer to Balian. The younger man's suspicion had been lowered. Good. "Please, forgive me. I have been blind, but now my eyes have been opened." God help those who were merciful, because they were always so vulnerable. That suited Ambrosius fine. Slowly, he advanced towards Balian on his hands and knees, all the while begging for the man's forgiveness. While they were all busy listening to him and absorbing his act, his hand extracted the dagger which was hidden in his sleeve.

Everything happened so quickly. The blade flashed once in the sun before it was plunged into Balian's side. The man grunted once and then staggered back, clutching his wound as dark blood poured out from between his fingers. He collapsed onto one knee as his friends surged forward to catch him. Gimli let out a roar of anger and leapt on the old man as he tried to jump into the sea. Breath was driven from Ambrosius' lungs as the dwarf landed on him and crushed him to the deck. Several blades were pointed at him at once.

Balian's breaths were coming in short shallow gasps. The women tried their best to stop the bleeding, but the wound was deep. Within moments, their makeshift bandages were soaked. However, he was still lucid. "Agnes," he gasped. "Get Barisian away, please..." The terrified girl nodded, and scrambled to obey. Barisian's face had been drained of blood, and he was staring in horror at his father as blood continued to pour out.

Achilles lost his temper entirely, and Gimli got out of the way just in time as the Greek reached down and hauled the cardinal to his feet by the neck, and slammed the back of his head against the mast. "You are asking for death," he hissed.

Gimli reached for the small throwing axes strapped to his belt. "I've had enough of his tricks," he said, taking an axe and testing its weight in his hand. Achilles let the cardinal drop to the deck. "Listen to me," growled the dwarf. "You listen carefully. If my friend dies, you're going to die in pieces, and that isn't going to be pretty." He nodded at Achilles, who tied the old man securely to the mast.

"Hector!" shouted Briseis. "Get down here! We need healing supplies and a physician!"

"I don't have a physician on my ship!" cried the captain. "The dead usually don't need medical attention!"

"We're going to need something to clean the wound with," said Will. "Where's my absinthe?"

Balian was carried into Hector's cabin, and they gently laid him on the captain's bunk. Grabbing some clean linen, Elizabeth tore it into strips to use as bandages. Will came back with his absinthe, and word was sent to the kitchen, telling the ship's cook to prepare a lot of hot water, salted or otherwise.

The dagger was still stuck within the man's body, and it would have to be removed. However, there was no serum of poppy onboard the _Dutchman_, and they could not afford to give him alcohol for fear that would increase the bleeding. "Who's going to do this?" asked Will, feeling a little queasy. Just because he had been stabbed in the chest once did not mean that he was immune to seeing other people's wounds.

"Considering the way you're asking, it won't be you," said Jack. "And it won't be me either."

"I don't trust myself enough," said Paris.

Asatarë declined the request, saying that he had no experience with physical injuries. "I only know how to manipulate life forces and elements," he said. "And I do not do that well at all."

Finally, it was Legolas who stepped up. "I have dealt with battle wounds," he said.

"Laddie, you aren't recovered yet," said Gimli, concerned for both his friends.

"Just because I am slightly weakened does not mean that I am a total imbecile," said Legolas, getting impatient. "And it is my body which has been weakened. My intellect remains intact."

"So be it," said Asatarë. The smell of blood was making him feel uncomfortable, and he headed outside for air. Being down in the cabin would do the man no good at any rate, and he would only get in the way of those who could help.

Balian was given a piece of folded cloth to bite on. Elizabeth gripped his hand tightly in hers. "You need to be quick," Legolas said to Will, who was in charge of helping to stop the bleeding. "Once the dagger is out, he will bleed heavily, and you need to press down hard on the wound."

Having washed his hands and then wiped them with a cloth soaked in absinthe, the elf tore the hole in Balian's shirt so that the wound could be revealed. He grasped the handle of the dagger. His eyes met those of Balian's. The two friends did not need to speak to understand each other. Balian nodded slightly. Sending up a quick prayer to the Valar, Legolas pulled out the dagger in one swift move. Balian arched his back in agony and screamed through gritted teeth. Blood spurted out. Wadded up linen was pressed against the wound. The injured man cursed in every language he knew as pain lanced through him again. Elizabeth winced as he crushed her hand in his powerful grip. She should have known better than to hold the hand of a wounded blacksmith. Hadn't she had enough experience with them?

"At least he sounds like he'll live," Jack whispered. Even the usually nonchalant pirate was pale. "I...uh...I'm going up onto the deck. Overcrowdin' will do him no good." He fled the sickroom, with Anna-Maria on his heels.

The makeshift bandages were soon soaked, and new ones were applied. Will's hands were covered in blood. "Please stop," he whispered. The bleeding did not seem to slow down at all. The bandages were replaced with new ones and Will continued to apply pressure to the wound. Those were soaked quickly as well. The process was repeated. After what seemed like a very long time, the bleeding slowed to a trickle. The wound was washed with absinthe —a painful and long process— and then bound with the remainder of the linen bandages.

"He is going to be fine, isn't he?" asked Will anxiously.

"I'm not sure," said Legolas. "So many things could go wrong. I don't know what's on that dagger."

Something charged into the cabin. "I want to see my papa," said Barisian. Agnes was wringing her hands helplessly behind the determined boy. Her face was pale. No one blamed her, for the entire cabin was filled with the smell of alcohol and blood.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I couldn't stop him—"

"Bari, come over here," came Balian's voice from the bunk. He held out his hand. "See? I'm going to be all right, _mon petit_. You don't need to be afraid." He sounded stronger than he felt.

Barisian approached his injured father slowly. He took in the sight of the discarded blood-soaked linen and the blood trail on the floor. Then he threw his arms around his father's neck and buried his face in the man's shoulder. "I...I was so sca...scared," he sobbed. "I thought...thought you were...go...gonna die..."

"I'm not going to die," Balian murmured soothingly, patting his son on the back. "Shh, it's fine, Bari. I'm going to be fine." He repeated that so many times that he almost believed it himself.

* * *

**A/N: **Uh huh, I'm back to the ouchies. At least they're all out of trouble for now. I think I've got one more chapter and an epilogue to go, but I could be wrong. And good news: My new computer is predicted to arrive on the 22 December! Completely off-topic, but I'm excited!


	24. Return to Middle Earth

**Chance Encounter: Legacy of the Third Age**

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything that you recognize.

**Chapter 23: Return to Middle Earth**

Paris stood in a corner of the captain's cabin, watching the exchange between Balian and his son. The prince's thoughts turned to Minas Tirith, and to his own wife, who had probably given birth by now. Was she all right? Was the baby all right? A wave of homesickness washed over him. He missed them so much, and he just wanted to leave this place behind and go back to his family.

Hector noticed his brother's distress. "Come up onto the deck with me," he said. "Some sun and air will do you good." Taking Paris' arm, he led the younger man out of the cabin.

"You can go too," Legolas said to Will, who looked decidedly pale. "Get some rest. You have done well. I'll stay here and keep watch."

"Are you sure you don't need help?" said Will, trying to keep his voice from trembling. He felt lightheaded.

"I am certain. If I need you, I can tell you." The elf tapped his head again. "I can still read your thoughts."

"Come on, Will," said Elizabeth. "Prince Hector's right. Air and sun will do us all some good."

Barisian's sobs had faded into occasional hiccups. Balian continued to pat his back and murmur soothing things to him, assuring the boy that everything was going to be fine. He was weak, but he was not going to show it, at least not to his son. Barisian needed reassurance.

Agnes continued to stand in the cabin, feeling awkward. She felt as if she was intruding on something private, but she didn't want to stay above deck all by herself either. Heloise's attention was all directed at Fulk, and her former maid hardly had any time for her. Balian's presence made Agnes feel safer. She felt a hand on her elbow. It was Legolas.

"Come, sit," he said, leading her over to a simple wooden chair.

"Am I intruding?" she whispered as she did as she was told. The elf sat down in another chair next to her. He raised an eyebrow at her question.

"You feel like an intruder?" he asked. She nodded. The elf smiled and shook his head, as if he found her concerns ridiculous.

"Well, this is a private moment between the two of them," she said.

"You do realize that if none of this had happened, you would have been married to Balian by now, and probably carrying his child while raising Barisian," said Legolas. "There would have been very few secrets between you."

Agnes coloured at the mention of marriage and childbearing. She liked Balian well enough, but wedding nights sounded mortifying, no matter who she spent hers with. And raising children? She didn't feel old enough. She glanced over at the bed to see if anyone had overheard the elf. If Balian had heard anything, he wasn't showing it. The man's eyes were half closed. Barisian had climbed onto the bed with him and was now curled up in sleep. "I guess I'm still not ready for marriage," she said.

"That is understandable," said Legolas, reaching over to pat her hand. "And I can tell you that Balian isn't ready for it either. He sought your hand because he needed an alliance with your father. It's nothing personal, but he loves Sibylla."

"What was she like?"

"Sibylla? I have never met her, but from what I know, she was a beautiful and brave woman, and they truly loved each other. He will never stop loving her, but he is fond of you in his own way."

Agnes looked down at her hands and fiddled with her fingers. She was fond of Balian too; in what way exactly, she could not tell. "Do you think he would still marry me?" she whispered, making sure that only Legolas would hear her.

"Do _you_ want to marry him?" Legolas asked, instead of giving her a direct answer.

"I don't know...I don't have any other choice. I can no longer serve the Church, not after I have seen its true colours. I can't go back to my father either, because he will believe that my virtue has been compromised and he will cast me out. That means that I will have to follow Balian wherever he goes, and it would not be proper to do that without marrying him."

"There are choices." Legolas stared into her eyes. "You just have to look for them."

"What other choice is there? I need someone to support me, and if I don't marry—"

"You do know that we intend to go back to Middle Earth after Balian has recuperated, don't you?" said Legolas.

"Yes, I know," said Agnes. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Everything," said Legolas. "Gondor is not the same as France, and there will be many options open to you. However, I shall leave you to discuss this with Balian. Just know that you don't have to be either a nun or a wife. There are other things in life besides serving the Church or serving a husband."

"You seem so certain, as if you know everything," said Agnes, looking at Legolas strangely.

"As an elf who has lived through many lifetimes of Men, I daresay I would know more than anyone else in this company, except for Asatarë."

* * *

By the next day, the entire ship was in an uproar. Balian had slipped into feverish unconsciousness. A film of sweat covered his face. Agnes was constantly by his side, replacing the wet cloth on his forehead when it got too hot, wiping away the sweat, and trying to feed him water. As she worked, she prayed fervently, hoping that somewhere up there, God would be listening to her.

Legolas was also there, replacing the dirtied bandages every few hours. He tried to lance the wound and burn out the infection, but it did not seem to work. Balian's condition worsened.

There was very little that the others could do. Hector was a saint, yes, but he was in charge of ferrying souls, and healing was not his specialty. There was no medicine onboard the ship, so the only thing that they could give Balian was water.

"The only other option is to try and find Calypso," said Hector to the others, as they discussed what they could do. "She is fond of Will, and of me, and if we beg her, she might just help."

"How are we going to find Calypso?" demanded Jack. "She's a temperamental goddess, and completely unreliable!"

"I can try to summon her," said Hector. "It might not work, but it is better than sitting here and watching Balian succumb to the fever." He looked around at the rest of them. "It's our only hope."

So it was agreed, and Hector went below deck to prepare.

* * *

Fulk could not tear his eyes away from the sight of the otherworldly captain stepping out into the ocean. No, not _into_ the ocean, but _onto_ the ocean. The man was not sinking. The Norman quickly made the sign of the cross and said a few pater nosters. The waves were calm, unlike that day on the Sea of Galilee, but there was still a man walking across water. He had believed that was possible when it came to God, but a mere man?

"Hector is no mere man," said the soft voice of Legolas as he came over to join Fulk at the railings of the ship. "He is the master of the sea, and a saint appointed by your god."

"I did hear that he was a saint," said Fulk, "but I thought it meant that he was a good man, that was all."

"Hector is a very good man, but he is not just a man. He is the captain of the _Flying Dutchman_; a ferryman of souls."

"This Calypso that he's trying to summon," said Fulk, changing the subject. "Who is she?" All this talk of souls and the supernatural made him uncomfortable, as it brought his mind to the topic of his own soul and salvation. He still wasn't certain whether this was the right course of action, although it did seem better than following Ambrosius on a one way trip to Hell.

"She's the goddess of the sea," said Legolas. "Will and Jack are well acquainted with her, and doubtless they would be able to tell you more."

"I have just as much trouble understanding Jack as I did when I first met him," said the Norman.

"Welcome to normalcy," said the elf, clapping him on the back. He turned his gaze to where Hector now stood. The waves were growing larger, and they surged around him like eager and affectionate hounds around their master. Their white crests bobbed up and down on the increasingly dark surface. The wind drowned out whatever it was the captain of the _Flying Dutchman_ was saying.

Thunder clashed, and dark clouds gathered above the ship. A funnel snaked down from the sky, reaching for the sea. Agnes, who'd come up above the deck for a rare breath of fresh air, wished that she hadn't. She fell onto her knees in fright, screeching for God at the top of her voice. Someone clapped a hand over her mouth, and she saw that it was Anna-Maria. The dark-skinned woman was paler than usual, but there was stubborn determination written all over her face. "Quiet, missy," she hissed. "Ya don't wanna insult Calypso with yer screamin'. She's terrible to behold, and if ye displease her, she'll easily wring yer neck, ye understand?" Agnes stared at her. The woman seemed completely serious. "Now," continued Anna-Maria. "I'll take me hand away, and you've gotta promise not to scream, or else I'll lock you in the brig, all right?"

Agnes nodded mutely. Coherent speech was beyond her at the moment. Anna-Maria released her, and the two turned their attention back to what was happening with the weather. The sea spray had formed a human shape. Agnes could make out wild hair whipping about an angular face. It was impossible to make out the being's colouring, for her body was made of water.

Everyone on the ship knelt down before her, and the French girl assumed that this was someone very important. She too, knelt, not that her legs were actually capable of holding her up at the moment.

Hector stepped back onto his ship. Despite his impressive performance, he was still dry. "Hail, Calypso!" he cried, trying to make himself heard above the din of the unnatural storm. "We seek your aid!"

"I had guessed as much," replied the goddess. Her voice sounded like the roaring of surf as it crashed into high rocky cliff-faces. "You never call upon me unless you need help. What is it this time, Captain Assaracus?"

"It's personal," said Hector. "My friend's life is in peril. He needs supernatural forces to heal him."

"Can _you _not heal him?" asked Calypso. She cocked her head in curiosity.

"Healing is not one of my gifts," said Hector.

"Know that it is not one of mine either," said Calypso. She diminished before their eyes. Swirling water became flesh and hair and a messy array of clothing. The goddess' skin was very dark, even more so than Anna-Maria's. She stepped onto the ship.

"Let me see him," she said. Hector led Calypso into his cabin, where Balian lay on the bed. His breathing was laboured, and he seemed to be trying desperately to suck in air, but failing. Calypso glided over to his bed side and picked up his wrist to feel for the pulse.

"What on earth are you doing?" demanded Achilles. They didn't need someone to tell them what was wrong with their friend; they already knew that. What they needed was for someone to heal Balian."

Calypso held up a finger to silence him. She didn't even look up from Balian's face. The goddess set his hand back down and then stroked his forehead with one long fingered hand. "Ah, yes," she murmured. "How can I forget? The Chosen One of the gods; what happened to you this time, my sweet?"

Will raised an eyebrow at that. It seemed that it was easy to win Calypso's affection. All one had to do was be noble and handsome. Oh, and unmarried. He thanked God and all the other deities that he had already been bound to Elizabeth when he had first entered into Calypso's service.

"You will help him?" said Hector. Calypso straightened herself.

"I cannot," she said. "The other gods will not let me. He must fight this himself. He must always fight the battles, whether they are his own or not."

"But you have never cared about what the others thought of you," protested Hector. "Why should you start caring now?"

"Because they will turn against me if I go against the decree of the One," said Calypso with a sigh. "It is called self-preservation, Captain Assaracus." She stalked out of the cabin, and the others followed her, all the while trying to persuade her to change her mind. They were all unsuccessful. Not even 'witty Jack' could convince Calypso that breaking the rules would be a very good thing to do.

Above deck, the wind was as strong as ever, making talking rather impossible. Calypso's flesh became transparent again as she returned to her most natural form as the queen of the oceans. The waves surged up to greet her, and she merged with them before disappearing all together. The wind faded away, and the sky cleared. Bright cheerful sunlight shone down on the ship's drenched passengers and crew, in complete contrast with their mood.

"And so," said Jack, "we fail again." The others remained silent, for they all were thinking the same thing. They dispersed, leaving Will standing alone at the head of the prow. The Irminsul was still in his pocket, and now, he took it out. It was so cold that his hand felt as if it was freezing as he held it. The stone glowed with bluish light. Because of this stone, a little boy was probably going to lose his father, and he, William Turner, was going to lose a friend. Was it really worth it? He held out the stone to the sun. The light reflected off its many smooth facets. So much death, just so that someone could get the stone and use if for his own gain? It seemed a poor bargain.

In his anger, Will flung the Irminsul far out into the ocean. Let it be lost to the depths! It flew high into the air and an arc, and then fell into the sea with a quiet splash. No one would be able to claim it now. The guardians of the sea, Calypso and Hector, would not let it happen. It made him feel a little better now that the jewel was lost. At least no one else was likely to die for it.

"Lost things have a habit of being found after some time," said Bootstrap, coming up to join his son. Will's father had a way of knowing exactly what Will was thinking. Bootstrap often said that it was because Will was so easy to read, like an open book. Will had retorted that Bootstrap could not truly read books, open or not, if they had been written in Turkish.

"I pray that it will never be found," said Will. "It has caused enough death and pain already."

"Didn't you say your friend was a servant of the gods?" asked Bootstrap.

"A servant of _God_," said Will, correcting his father. "Balian doesn't need to answer to any heathen deity."

"Perhaps his master will save him, then, if he is to be saved," said the older man. "Fortune is a funny thing. You, of all people, should know, William." Bootstrap put an arm around Will's shoulder. "What's done is done, and no amount of brooding will make things better." He glanced over his shoulder. "Elizabeth is coming for you. I think I shall take my leave. She looks like she wants to talk to you in private." Will's father clapped him on the back and then went below deck to see whether everything in the ship was secure.

"Will," said Elizabeth. "I don't think we have any choice except go back to Middle Earth and seek help from King Elessar. He's the only one who can help Balian now, and I'm sure that he's not bound by any divine decree to not help."

"It will be a dangerous move," said Will. However, he was more than willing to do that if it meant that Balian would have a chance.

"It's better than watching him die," said Elizabeth.

"Have you spoken to the others about it?"

"No. I just wanted to see what you thought first."

"I think it's worth the risk, but not everyone will see things the same way as we do."

"Then why don't we go and find out?" Catching Will's hand in her own, Elizabeth gave his fingers a squeeze before dragging him into Hector's cabin. There were many people waiting outside. They didn't want to overcrowd Balian, but they didn't want to leave him either.

"Gentlemen!" called Elizabeth. "I have a suggestion."

"What suggestion?" asked Barbossa, narrowing his eyes. Elizabeth was well known for her unconventional ideas. She seemed to be the nemesis of convention.

"I suggest that we take the risk and go back to Middle Earth to seek help," said Elizabeth. She tightened her grip on Will's hand as she waited for the response, and she wasn't disappointed.

"To go back to Middle Earth, we'll need to go to World's End to make the transition," said Paris. "And I don't think Balian can deal with boats turning upside down at the moment."

"But King Elessar is the only one who can help him now," said Elizabeth. As she spoke, she turned to Legolas. She knew that he had faith in his friend's skill, and that would probably push him towards her point of view. "The hands of a king are the hands of a healer."

"It is our only hope," added Will, to garner more support.

"I have faith in the king's skill," said Achilles. Ever since he had met Aragorn, his unwavering loyalty to the man had bordered on idolizing admiration.

"I don't doubt Aragorn's skill," said Paris, "and I know that he will be able to help. The problem is how to get back to Middle Earth without further worsening Balian's situation."

"We could bind him to the bed to prevent him from falling out," suggested Will.

"I mean, how do we convince an unconscious man to hold his breath?" said Paris. There was silence; no one had considered that before.

"He's not likely to wake up without some outside influence," said Achilles, and we've tried everything." He glanced at Asatarë. The Maia looked uncertain. "Can't you do whatever it is that you did for Legolas? We need him to wake up if we are to save him."

"I do not know if I can do this once again," said Asatarë. "The last time has left me drained, and this time we have even fewer participants."

"You are incorrect," said Achilles. "This time, we're safe on this ship, and we have an entire crew to protect us. I can be a part of the procedure if you need me to be."

"As can I," said Paris, stepping forward. He was not about to let Achilles best him in this. "Asatarë, I know this is difficult for you, but this time, we only need to give him enough power so that he might wake up. I believe that once we get back to Middle Earth, King Elessar will be able to do the rest."

All through this entire exchange, Will had remained silent. The last time they'd transferred life forces, they'd had the Irminsul. Now, the stone was resting somewhere at the bottom of the ocean, and they were surely far from it by now. The _Dutchman_ was a fast ship.

"Well, Will," said Paris. "What say you?"

"What part does the Irminsul play?" asked Will.

"The Irminsul enhances the life forces for the one who is receiving them," answered Asatarë. "Why do you ask?"

"What would you say if I said that we no longer have the Irminsul?"

The Maia narrowed his eyes. "What happened?" he demanded.

"In a fit of anger, I threw it into the ocean," said Will, cringing. That sounded bad, even to his own ears. There was a mixed response to this declaration, and there was more confusion than anything else.

Jack's eyes grew large as he absorbed the information. "You threw away the shiny stone?!" he cried. "No! No! Why did you do that? It's so stupid, even for you!"

"You threw away one of the greatest treasures the world has ever seen?" said Achilles, looking impressed. "I underestimated you, William Turner."

"You threw away the artefact entrusted to _me_ by the _Valar_?" whispered Asatarë. No one could mistake the anger in his voice. The Maia's robes and beard whipped about him as if there was a great wind blowing. His face was white with fury.

"It might be for the best," said Paris. "At least no one will be able to use it to threaten the world. Anyway, we were talking about saving Balian, were we not?" The Trojan prince quickly changed the subject, and Will was grateful for his help.

"Will we be able to do this procedure _without_ the Irminsul?" asked Legolas. "That's what worries me most."

"It is possible," growled Asatarë, still glaring at Will. "But it will be difficult."

"We have more people this time," Achilles reminded the Maia.

"If there is anything I can do to help..." began Hector. He still had not truly understood the story of the Irminsul, but he did know that it was somehow important, although not what it did.

"You are the master of the seas, are you not?" said Asatarë. "You can get the jewel back for me."

"That's not what I meant," interjected the captain of the _Flying Dutchman_. "I cannot interfere with the affairs of the realm of the living, but if I can do something to help Balian _without_ violating the laws of the gods, then all you need to do is ask."

"Just try and make the transition from here to World's End as comfortable as possible after we're done," said Jack. "The previous times have been hellish."

* * *

Everyone had been chased out of the captain's cabin —including the captain— except for those who were supposed to be participating in the procedure. Paris' hands were slick with nervous perspiration. He could not deny that he was afraid. The Trojan glanced at Achilles. The warrior's face was neutral. For someone as unsubtle as the Greek, he did know how to keep his emotions hidden. Maybe it was the years of slaughter.

Legolas, despite his numerous protests, had not been allowed to take part, as no one thought he was hale enough to do so. The elf had stalked off, muttering about children who should know better than to rebut their elders. No doubt he had gone off to prepare something for all of them to replenish their strength after the procedure was over.

"He can deny it all he likes, but he acts like a mother hen," said Gimli gruffly.

"And you are going to remind him every chance you get, aren't you?" asked Will. He was prepared for the ensuing discomfort and weakness. The worst thing was that Balian would get to read his mind for a while afterwards. He didn't know who would be more embarrassed; him or Balian.

* * *

Agnes stood outside the door of the captain's cabin with Barisian. The boy had refused to budge and Agnes was not about to risk having him open the door and watch the procedure. There were some things that little children weren't supposed to see, and this was one of them. Now, Barisian had seen many scenes which were completely unsuitable for children, but that did not mean that Agnes was going to let him add to that list.

Right now, the boy had his ear pressed against the door. "I can't hear nuthin'," he said.

"You cannot hear _anything_," Agnes corrected him. "Barisian, you can't talk like a common waif. It's unbefitting of a lord's son."

"What does 'un-beef-eating' mean?" asked the boy in confusion. "Does that mean I can't eat beef? That's really strange, Lady Agnes. The Muslims and the Jews can't eat pork, but everyone's allowed to eat beef, right?"

Agnes resisted the urge to slap her forehead. That was very unladylike, and outlawed or not, she was still a well brought up noblewoman and that mean she could not curse or roll her eyes, unlike Elizabeth and Anna-Maria. Sometimes, she was truly jealous of their freedom, and of Briseis' too. They had chosen what sort of lives they had wanted to live, whereas she had relied on fate, and her father. Now, she was relying on Balian. Legolas had mentioned other options, but what other options could their possibly be? A woman had to marry. It was the world's expectation.

"Lady Agnes, you still haven't answered my question," said Barisian, staring up at her expectantly. The boy had the largest blue eyes she had ever seen. He had definitely inherited them from his mother; Balian's eyes were decidedly brown.

"I think everyone is allowed to eat beef," she said. "But I wouldn't know. Maybe you should ask someone else."

"The Cap'n should know," said Barisian. "He knows everything!"

"You mean Captain Barbossa?" asked Agnes. Here was another confusing thing; why did Barisian seem to think that Barbossa's first name was 'Captain'? There was still so much she had to learn about these people.

* * *

Balian became aware of a lot of voices inside his head. They were calling him back to the world of the living. But he wasn't even dead, was he? His side hurt, and he felt weak. The surface beneath him was rocking gently, as if he was on a ship. Wait; he _was_ on a ship. Hector had come to their rescue.

And then what had happened? He remembered only fragments. There was Ambrosius on his hands and knees, and then there was pain. His mind was too muddled to put all the pieces together.

The voices were getting stronger. Someone was cursing as they demanded that he return at once. He could see...oh Christ! These were definitely things that he was never supposed to see. He groaned and forced himself to open his eyes. If he woke up, would they leave him alone and get out of his head?

"He's awake!" someone croaked. "Alleluia!"

"Good to see you too, Jack Sparrow," whispered Balian. "And I would be grateful if you stopped thinking about Scarlett and Giselle, as would Anna-Maria."

"You won't tell Anna, will you?" asked Jack anxiously.

"Not if you stop thinking about the first two."

"I know this is interesting," said Will, "and I am glad that you're back, Balian, but there are other things that we need to deal with. Such as going to World's End and then to Middle Earth."

"Up is down!" declared Jack, staggering to his feet to go and tell everyone else that their plan was being set into motion, and probably to get whatever concoction Legolas had prepared.

* * *

Being submerged in cold sea water was bad, but it was worse to be submerged in cold sea water when one was ill. Balian gritted his teeth as the cold seemed to pierce through his body and into his bones. He hung on to the rigging, for he had insisted on coming up above deck. It was bad enough that he would be completely underwater. He hadn't wanted to be underwater and trapped by walls as well. Perhaps he was becoming like Legolas. His elven friend had an unnatural abhorrence for closed in spaces.

He breathed a sigh of relief when he felt air on his face again. Well, he did gasp rapidly for air, and then sent up a quick prayer of thanks. The man leaned back and let the sun shine on his face. It was always sunny at World's End, according to Will.

"Papa!" He felt the arms of his enthusiastic son wrap themselves around him. "Look, Papa!" cried Barisian. "We're at World's End! We really are at World's End! We're in Davy Jones' locker!"

"I don't see why you should be so excited about being in the land of the dead," said Fulk, pushing dark locks of dripping hair away from his eyes. The Norman was decidedly unenthusiastic about all of this.

"Can we throw that holy-whats-his-face into the sea now?" asked Jack. Legolas' little potion had made him feel much better.

"Ye be meanin' that ye want to kill 'im in a very uncreative way?" asked Barbossa, shaking water out of his hat. The feather on it drooped miserably, as if it, too, resented being forced underwater. "Jack Sparra, I be disappointed in ye."

"Wot, my dear Hector? You think there's a better idea than leavin' that unholy cowl-wearin' bastard here to keep dear old Lord Cutler Beckett company?"

"That sounds strangely appropriate," said Elizabeth, wringing her hair dry. Droplets of water fell onto the already wet deck.

"Not to ruin your fun, but I haven't seen Cutler Beckett," said Bootstrap. "It's my guess that either he didn't die, or he got lost somewhere amongst the backlog of souls."

"Can we leave this Cutter Biscuit out for a while?" said Achilles. "We are going to Middle Earth, are we not?"

"It's _Cutler Beckett_," said Jack. "The next thing we know, you'll be calling him...I don't know... 'Cutlery Beggar' or something like that."

"What's cutlery?" asked Fulk. "Is it important enough to beg for?"

"Hardly," said Jack. "It's all this extra unneeded equipment that 'civilized' folk invented. Personally, I don't see what's wrong with fingers, and perhaps a wee knife for all purposes."

"They're tools for eating," said Will quickly. Fulk's eyes had grown wide, and there was no telling what the Norman had been thinking of when Jack had said 'equipment'. The pirate's eunuch jokes had become rather infamous. "We don't believe in eating with our fingers."

"What's wrong with eating with fingers?" asked Jack. "It saves you from having to wash up!"

"First, we talk about Cutler Beckett, and now we talk about the importance of cutlery?" said Legolas, raising an eyebrow. Soaking wet or not, the elf still looked like an immortal elf lord. No one understood how he could keep his composure when he had gone through the same things as everyone else. Apart from a few smudges of dirt here and there, his appearance was pristine. "I don't know how I can keep up with you. I thought we were talking about going back to Middle Earth."

"Actually, we were talking about how to deal with the cardinal," Elizabeth informed him. "But you are right, as usual. We need to get to Middle Earth before doing anything else." Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that Balian's face was pale, and he was shivering, despite the sun. If he had been hale, this would not be happening.

"Everyone, hold on," said Hector. "We are going under again."

"Don't worry," called Jack. "I ain't lettin' go!"

* * *

Aragorn leaned against the railing of the balcony and stared out across the fields of Pelennor, towards Mordor, remembering the days gone by. He had been a young man when he had first set eyes on the towering walls of rock which surrounded the Dark Land. The years —and the defeat of Sauron— had eroded that fear. He was hardly a young man anymore, although he could still wield a sword with devastating effect.

The Anduin glittered like a silver ribbon upon green silk. Of course, there were burnt patches here and there, marking the places where the Witch King fell and where they had burned the foul corpse of his winged steed. It was a beautiful spring morning, and he regretted that he could not share it with his friends.

"Estel?" came the soft voice of his queen. He felt her hand on his shoulder, and he turned around slowly. "You are thinking about them again, husband?" It was more a statement than a question. Arwen knew him too well.

"I simply wish that I can know what has happened," said Aragorn, taking his wife's pale delicate hand in his own and stroking the soft skin with rough calloused fingers.

"What does your heart tell you?" she asked, gazing at him without blinking.

"That was the very question that I asked Mithrandir when he doubted Frodo's survival," said Aragorn, giving his wife a small smile.

"I know," she replied, "and I'm asking you now."

"If they were dead, then I would feel it," said Aragorn, looking down. "And yet, I do not feel anything. I fear that something dangerous might have befallen them. No, I _know_ that something dangerous must have befallen them. It always happens. The last time Legolas and Balian disappeared, they went and fought a war at...where was it...Troy, and then they got separated. Legolas rescued Elizabeth from the gallows and Balian went to steal a queen."

"Not _steal_," corrected Arwen. "From my knowledge, Sibylla was Balian's in the first place."

"But that's beside the point," said Aragorn. "The point is that every time they disappear, they get themselves into trouble, and I am not there to get them out of it. And this time, Gimli's with them. I shudder to think of the chaos."

* * *

Anarthor was a simple fisherman who made his living on the shores of the Anduin, setting traps for fish in the morning and gathering his catch as evening fell. Nothing too strange had happened on the river ever since Gondor had won the war against the Haradrim king and set up his nephew —the rightful heir to the Haradrim throne— in his place. The fisherman had not expected anything extraordinary to happen either. He could do without the excitement, thank you very much. For one, it scared away the fish.

So when a giant ship burst up through the surface of the river, Anarthor thought he that he was in the middle of a nightmare. Water cascaded off the sides of the vessel. Its sails billowed in the non-existent breeze. A ghostly green glow surrounded it. The poor man staggered backwards and slipped on an algae covered stone, falling into the mud on the river bank.

"Hey!" cried someone aboard the mysterious and unnatural ship. "We're _not_ stuck in a tiny little pond in the middle of nowhere!"

* * *

**A/N: **I calculated wrongly; this is not to be the last chapter after all. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it. Things are beginning to settle down and the story is winding up.


	25. Secrets

**Chance Encounter: Legacy of the Third Age**

**Disclaimer: **I don't anything that you recognize. I'm just borrowing them without permission but with every intention of returning them once I'm done, savvy?

**Chapter 24: Secrets**

Legolas had never been so glad to see the Fields of Pelennor again, with Minas Tirith looming in the distance, glistening like a pearl in the golden glow of dusk. Paris, ever the diplomat, was trying to placate a distraught fisherman with a few gold coins, no doubt borrowed from Hector.

The elf helped Balian off the gangplank, while behind them, Achilles was practically shoving the wretched form of Ambrosius off the ship. For the first time, the eloquent cardinal was completely speechless.

Ambrosius de Magio had never thought that he would actually see Lucius' Aurelius' Middle Earth, but here he was, standing along the shores of the fabled Anduin and staring at the magnificence of Minas Tirith. The Roman chronicler had not exaggerated. Truly, nothing in his own world could compare with the White City.

"Quickly!" said Achilles. His tone was curt. "You can stare at Minas Tirith later, although I don't think you'll have much time to do it once King Elessar finds out about all that you've done."

"King?" croaked Ambrosius. "I...I thought Gondor only had a st...st...steward..."

"That was then," said Achilles. Good, he was scared; he deserved to be. "This is now, and the king is not fond of those who hurt his dearest companions."

Asatarë had never been to Middle Earth. It was not as green as Aman, but it was certainly much better than that place called Europe. At least it was warm, and it was not raining, although that

would hardly have mattered at the moment. The Maia was as soaked as the rest of them. He forgot about everything and turned his face towards the sun. Even the air smelled different. He could feel its dormant power. "It is good to be back," he breathed.

Agnes and Heloise clutched at each other as they got off the ship. This new place was so full of opportunities and promises that it frightened them. They had never felt so much freedom, and now that they had it, they didn't know what to do with it. Agnes, in particular, was terrified. Where were the walls? Where were the mountains and the forests? She had never seen such big open spaces before. What awaited them inside that city?

"It's magnificent, isn't it?" said Elizabeth, oblivious to their fear. "When I first arrived, I found myself on the topmost level of Minas Tirith, stuck in the White Tree."

"That old tree has since then died," added Briseis. "The king found a new one and planted that in the courtyard instead. I am glad that we did not crush that seedling."

All of a sudden, men wearing the livery of Gondor surrounded them. Their swords were drawn, and they looked decidedly hostile. "Halt!" shouted a familiar voice. "Wot's yer business in Gondor, eh?"

"It's Ragetti," whispered Will to Jack. There was no mistaking the tall thin figure of the pirate. He had exchanged his wooden eye for a glass one, but that still looked in the wrong direction. Beside him was the short and rotund Pintel. Being in the Gondorian Navy had not improved their personal hygiene at all.

"Messires Ragetti and Pintel," drawled Barbossa. "Don't you remember yer dear old captain?"

"It's Captain Barbossa!" gasped Ragetti, immediately dropping his sword. The weapon almost landed on Pintel's foot.

"Watch it!" shouted the fat pirate, jumping out of the way just in time. "Bless my soul. It's the captains and the Admiral!"

Said captains and admiral exchanged glances. It seemed that nothing had changed. "Ragetti, Pintel," said Will. "We need to see the king immediately. Get horses, wagons; carriages too, if you can."

"Aye, aye, sir!" said Pintel, standing as straight as he could and saluting Will before hurrying off to find the required items. He didn't find many horses, but the sailor did manage to borrow some donkeys and even two mules.

There was a brief squabble as everyone tried to claim the only horse. Well, almost everyone. Balian was rather happy with his mule, as they tended to be more placid creatures. At last, it was Achilles who claimed the horse for himself and Briseis, using as an excuse the fact that they were the only royal couple. Elizabeth's protests that her status as Pirate King made her and Will a royal couple as well went ignored. Jack opted to walk, as he had not had good experiences with anything equine. Of course, Ambrosius was walking as well, and he was being watched by the ever diligent Pintel and Ragetti.

"I feel such a fool, riding into a city on a donkey," muttered Fulk. Not that he actually wanted to walk, for he was exhausted, but no knight with any pride would settle for a donkey.

"It is nothing to be ashamed of," said Balian. "Jesus rode into Jerusalem on a donkey."

"And if a donkey's good enough for Jesus, it's too good for you," added Jack, flashing one of his famous grins at the now embarrassed Fulk.

Legolas, riding on the other mule, was not listening to the lively relieved banter. The Fields of Pelennor had never looked so vast to him before. Everything was so far away. For the first time, he saw Minas Tirith as the mortals saw it; a tiny glittering jewel nestled against tall grey rock. Middle Earth was so silent. He could not hear the sound of the wind in the trees as it brushed past leaves in the far away forests. The colours themselves seemed less bright.

Gimli's voice broke through his melancholic thoughts. "Lad," said the dwarf, "don't worry about it. Aragorn will know how to deal with that poison. You'll be as good as new in no time."

"I pray that you are right, friend Gimli," said the elf with a small sigh. He trusted Aragorn's skills, but he was beginning to wonder if he would ever be back to normal. If recovery was possible, he would have recovered long ago; elves healed quickly.

The mule, sensing that its rider was not concentrating, stopped suddenly, almost throwing Legolas from his saddle. The elf just managed to clutch at the pommel. If he had been his usual self, this would not have happened. He would have been able to feel the mule's intention, and even if the sudden stop had taken him by surprise, he would have been able to keep his balance easily. Valar, had he truly become mortal?

—

His desk was cluttered with papers. Aragorn's large ink-stained hand dwarfed the quill which he held as he quickly wrote a reply to an official's report. A goblet of water stood to the side. Occasionally, the king would take a sip from it before resuming his work. He was rudely interrupted by one of his guards. The man seemed abnormally excited, and that roused Aragorn's curiosity. Achilles had trained the Gondorian Elite Guards to be calm and neutral at all times. "What is it?" he asked the man.

"They've returned, Sire!" cried the man.

"Who? State it clearly."

"Lord Achilles, Lord Legolas and all the rest of them! They've ridden into the city, and are heading for the Houses of Healing. Lord Achilles told one of the men to pass on the word to you, milord."

"They're back?" Aragorn stood up abruptly, sending his chair toppling backwards. His quill fell out of his hand and onto the half-finished reply, leaving blotches of ink on the paper. He didn't care. His friends were back, and he was going to see them now. Work could wait.

Throwing on a cloak —black, to ensure that the king never wore colours which clashed, no matter how little attention he paid to his choice of garment— he raced out of his study and to the Houses of Healing. His guards struggled to keep up with his pace, for the king's legs were very long and he seemed to be as quick as an elf.

Servants bowed as he passed them. Usually, he would have greeted them, often by name, and sometimes even asked after their families, but this time, he ignored them in his eagerness to see his recently returned friends. The servants exchanged glances. They were not sure what had just happened, but it did not seem to be an emergency, and they were not too worried about the king's unusual behaviour. In his hurry, he crashed into Faramir, who was carrying yet another pile of reports up to the king's office. The impact sent both men falling to the floor. Paper flew everywhere and rained down on them like very large flakes of snow.

"Milord," said a rather flustered Faramir. "You seem to be in a great hurry."

"Of course I am!" said Aragorn, clambering to his feet and pulling his Steward up with him. "Legolas and Gimli have returned!"

"They have?" said Faramir. He forgot about the dropped paper. "Where are they? Are they well?"

"That's what I'm going to find out," said Aragorn. "They're in the Houses of Healing."

The two men raced away, leaving the servants to pick up the dropped paper and take it to the king's study. These officials would not be getting replies for a while.

* * *

Balian had not been able to get off his mule without help. The wild travelling arrangements had left him exhausted and worsened his situation. Only his sheer determination had kept him from falling out of the saddle. Will immediately went to his side to support him. "We're here, Balian," he said. "We're home. Everything will be fine. You will be fine."

"Thank you," whispered Balian. "I am glad to be back."

"Stop talking and save your strength," said Will. "You'll need it all."

The healers had seen them coming, and, having guessed correctly that they would be in need of medical aid, had prepared several rooms for them; one for each, to be exact. "We're not that bad, are we?" asked Paris.

"It is better to be prepared," said the healer who was leading them to the nearest of these rooms. "The nature of your exploits are well known, milords."

Balian breathed a small sigh of relief as he was lowered onto the bed. The soft mattress felt good beneath his aching body. His boots and wet clothes were removed. He shivered, even though his body was covered with many thick blankets. A cup was put to his lips. Pungent steam rose from it. "Drink," said Elizabeth. "The healer said it would make you feel better."

Knowing better than to argue with Elizabeth, he obediently drank. The hot liquid did warm him up from within, but it also made him grimace. "Why must medicine taste so bad?" he whispered.

Jack, who had been drinking wine straight from a decanter, now set down the vessel, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and sat down on the edge of Balian's bed. "Y'know, the Chinese have saying that 'Good medicine is bitter and good for curing illnesses'."

"The Chinese?" asked Balian. He had never heard of such a race, even though Jack did like to mention them every now and then. They had very odd but practical sayings.

"Jack, you can teach him about the wonders of China later," chided Will. "Right now, just let him drink his tea."

A man rushed into the room, startling all its occupants. "Balian!" he cried. "_Allahu akbar_! You're still breathing!"

Agnes stiffened at the arrival of the newcomer. The lean and swarthy man had deep-set slanted eyes, and his beard was neatly trimmed. He wore a deep blue turban, and even though the girl had never seen one, she knew that the man was a Saracen, and a heathen infidel. How could Balian treat him as a friend? She glanced around at all the others. With the exception of Fulk and Heloise, the others welcomed him as if he was one of them. Barisian had thrown himself at the man and called him 'uncle', and Balian was trying to sit up so as to greet him.

"No, no, my friend," said the Saracen. "Lie down. You look even worse than usual."

"And I am glad to see you too, Imad," said Balian, doing as he was told.

"I cannot imagine what you have been through," said Imad, gripping Balian's hand tightly in his own. "And what on earth happened to your hair? It is barbarically short, although I guess your hair has been the least of your worries."

Gimli raised an eyebrow and glanced at Legolas. Perhaps he should apologize for calling his elvish friend the prissiest thing he had ever met. Imad seemed to need to sort out his priorities as well.

Before Imad could say any more, he was interrupted by the arrival of two men. Both of them were breathing harshly, having ran all the way. Behind them were eight panting guards with red faces, looking most harried and undignified.

As Fulk looked at the older of the two, he suddenly felt the urge to go on bended knee before the man. Whoever he was, he exuded authority, and the Norman suspected that this was the King of Gondor. The man's dark hair was threaded with silver, and although he looked like he needed to be introduced to a comb, there was an air of noblesse about him. The way he stood indicated that he was not used to bowing down to anyone. The lines on his weathered face only added to the noblesse and made him look like a wise prophet of old.

Achilles was the first to recover from the two men's abrupt entrance. He went down on bended knee. "All hail Elessar, King of Gondor!" he cried. "Long live the king!"

All the others followed his example and knelt. "Long live the king!" they cried.

"Oh, get up!" said the older of the two newcomers. So Fulk had been right. This was indeed the King of Gondor. "You know that I cannot stand ceremony."

"It's good to be back, Estel," said Legolas quietly in Sindarin. He stepped forward to embrace Aragorn, and the two gripped arms in the way of elven warriors.

"You look awful," said Aragorn, looking Legolas up and down.

"I believe I have said that of you many times," said the elf.

"Yes, and this is the first time I have ever said it to you," said Aragorn. "But I do not jest." He searched his friend's face for answers. There were dark shadows under the elf's eyes, and his hands were cold. He seemed thinner, and frailer. 'Frail' had not been a word which Aragorn would have used to describe the Legolas of old.

"You can worry about me later," said Legolas, interrupting Aragorn's thoughts. "Balian is the one who needs your help right now."

As Aragorn started barking orders at the other healers, telling them to fetch everything that he needed, including athelas, preferably fresh, Faramir looked around at the new additions to their company. The large fair man was still staring at Imad. Hostility was apparent, and Imad did not seem too friendly either. To their credit, they had not spoken to each other or started a fight, although they were in the middle of a staring contest. It did not bode well, however. The Steward coughed loudly to interrupt them.

"I take it that the king will want some more room while he works, and you are all tired from your journey," he said.

"I'm completely worn out," declared Jack, waving his hands about wildly and almost backhanding a healer in the face. Faramir raised an eyebrow. The pirate had not been back for long, and already, he'd had too much wine.

"I will have someone bring refreshments to your quarters," said Faramir. The steward beckoned to them, and they followed him out of the room, leaving Aragorn alone with Balian. Barisian was reluctant to go, but Anna-Maria had a very firm grip on his hand and he didn't really have a choice.

The gardens of the Houses of Healing were as peaceful and green as they had all remembered it to be. Briseis sank gratefully onto a white stone bench. Dappled sunlight warmed her skin. She was glad to be back in Gondor.

Faramir turned to Will and Elizabeth. "Your children have been very worried about you," he said, "and I am sure they will be delighted to see you."

"How are Willie and Jane?" asked Elizabeth. "Are they well?"

"They are fine," Faramir assured her. With so many surrogate aunts and uncles looking after them, they could only be fine. "And Paris? You might want to return to your rooms. Your wife is waiting for you to give your little daughter a name."

There was silence as everyone tried to absorb the news, and then the new father was bombarded with congratulations while Faramir was assaulted with questions about the baby, which he tried to decipher and answer. Paris, on the other hand, was too overwhelmed with emotion to say anything. He was a father. He and Helen had a little princess. What to call her? No doubt she would be a beauty like her mother. Would he be able to be a good father?

"What are you waiting for?" someone whispered into his ear. It was Achilles. "Go up and find your wife!" Instead of trying to come up with a retort, Paris simply nodded and dashed away, leaving the Greek shaking his head in amusement.

* * *

Sunlight lit up the nursery. Toys were scattered about on the floor; Astyanax and Prince Eldarion were holding court together, lining up rows of tiny tin soldiers in battle formation. The former was patiently explaining to the latter why trolls did not belong with the horsemen.

Helen sat by the cradle, rocking it gently and singing a soft tune to the baby within. She was only two months old, but it was already evident that she was Paris' daughter. Long dark lashes, just like his, framed her round brown eyes, and soft dark curls crowned her head. The baby, it seemed, was not interested in sleeping. She made noises which only babies could make and tried to free her arms from beneath the blanket. Helen reached in and stroked her cheek with a finger, and the baby turned in the direction of the touch. The midwife had said that it was an instinctive reaction, and that she would grow out of it in a few months. Helen hoped that Paris would be back by then. He would hate to miss out on the first few months of their daughter's life.

She heard hurried footsteps and looked up. There, standing in the doorway and looking extremely nervous, was Paris. Salt caked his hair and his face, and he was in dire need of a bath. Helen forgot about the two other children in the room. She forgot about rocking the cradle. All that mattered was Paris, and he was right there in front of her. She ran into his arms. "Helen," he whispered as he wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her golden hair. Tears flowed and mingled. He brought his lips down to hers in a deep kiss. He smelled of brine and masculine sweat. Helen curled her fingers into his hair, clutching at him as if she was afraid of losing him again. They lost themselves in their kiss, until something made them aware of where they were exactly.

The two little boys in the corner had stopped preparing for a battle of tin soldiers and orcs. Astyanax was staring at his aunt and uncle with immense disapproval. "Ew," he said, loudly and clearly. Nothing more was needed to express his opinion on this matter.

The two adults broke apart, breathing heavily and still staring at each other. Then Helen took Paris' hand. "Come," she said, leading him over to the cradle. Paris peered down. A baby with large brown eyes stared up at him with curiosity, for she was not yet old enough to fear strangers. Helen bent down to pick her up in her arms. "This is our daughter, Paris," she said. "She looks like you, doesn't she?"

"I think she looks more like her mother," said Paris. He wanted to hold her, but she looked so delicate that he was afraid of breaking her if he did hold her. "She has my colouring, but she looks like you, Helen, as she should."

"She looks like both of us, because she is a part of the two of us," said Helen. She knew exactly how Paris felt, seeing his daughter for the first time. She'd felt that way she'd seen this tiny little creature, covered in slime and blood and squalling so loudly that she could have woken the dead. Without giving him any warning, she handed him the baby.

Paris was about to protest, but one look from Helen silenced him. He was so afraid of dropping the warm little bundle in his arms. A tiny face with large eyes stared back at him. The baby opened her mouth to reveal pink toothless gums. She grunted and tried to wave her fists, although the swaddling clothes prevented most movement. He remembered Elizabeth telling Will that one had to support a baby's head when Will had first held Little Jane. He shifted his baby so that her head rested on the crook of his arm and the rest of her was wedged between his arm and chest. The Trojan prince had seen many beautiful things in his life, but he had never seen anything quite so beautiful and precious as his little daughter. Her tiny grasping hands resembled pink starfish. Slowly, he reached out to touch one of those hands with a finger and was pleasantly surprised when his daughter grabbed it and refused to let go.

"Paris?" said Helen. Her husband seemed to have forgotten all about her. "Paris, give her a name."

"You haven't named her?" asked the prince.

"I wanted to wait until her father returned," said Helen with a coy smile, lowering her eyes. "It is proper that the father should name his firstborn."

Paris thought for a while. "Hermione," he said at last. "For I want her to lead the life that every little girl deserves. She will not grow up surrounded by every luxury available. My daughter will know the truth about the world, and she will not be afraid of it."

"Earthly?" said Helen. "That is a good meaning." At that moment, the newly named Hermione began to fuss. Her mother laughed at the dismay on Paris' face. "You didn't do anything wrong, my dear husband. She's just hungry."

"Oh," said Paris, relieved that he was not at fault. He gave Hermione back to her mother and watched them both as Helen went behind a screen to feed their daughter. The baby's mewling became contented silence.

* * *

Empty silence surrounded him. The shafts of sunlight pouring in through the windows and highlighting the dust motes on the air failed to warm up this chamber of smooth white stone. The windows were too high for Ambrosius to climb through. There was a single chair in the room, and that was where he was sitting. The thick stone walls prevented any sound from coming through. The bedraggled cardinal kept on muttering prayers under his breath, but no number of _Pater Nosters_ and _Ave Marias_ could drive away the feeling of dread which seemed to be seeping into his bones. He was completely alone in enemy territory. The most merciful of them was incapacitated at the moment, and if he was to rely on the sympathy of the others, then he would probably be cut into a thousand pieces and then fed to the dogs.

In the past, Ambrosius had had no qualms about dealing out death, but now that he was the one facing death, he was afraid. He didn't like pain; he didn't want to just be snuffed out like the pathetic sputtering flame of a candle. All the power that he had gained in his entire life would be lost to him, not that he had it right now. If only he could return to Rome, where his name actually meant something.

* * *

Fierce wind whipped his long golden hair about his face as he stood at the top of the wall. Blue eyes stared out towards the Anduin, but no matter how hard Legolas concentrated, he could not make the river appear closer. He could not see the towers of far away Osgiliath, nor could he hear the cries of the gulls from the nearby sea. The last one should have offered him some comfort, but it only made him feel his loss even more keenly.

It was odd that his friends had not told Aragorn about his ailment. Perhaps they were all waiting for him to do the talking. It was difficult to speak of it. Legolas was not used to asking for help and after three millennia, it was hard to change a habit. He had hoped that someone else would do this for him, just to make it easier, but no one seemed to dare.

Legolas knew himself well. He knew that if someone had told Aragorn, he would have taken out his frustration on that person, even though he would be secretly relieved. It was just that his pride would not allow it.

A hand on his shoulder startled him and he whipped around, reaching for knives which weren't there. "Legolas, it's me," came the familiar voice of Paris.

"What are you doing here?" asked the elf.

"Am I not allowed to be here?" asked the man. There was a strange light in his eyes, as if he had glimpsed some paradise beyond the spheres of this world.

"Of course you are allowed," said Legolas, raising an eyebrow. What an odd thing to say. "I just thought you would be with Helen."

"Helen's trying to persuade Hermione to sleep," said the Trojan prince. His grin was so wide that it threatened to split his face in half.

"Then I offer you my congratulations, my friend," said Legolas. From Paris' tone, it was easy to understand that Hermione was his child. "A son or a daughter?"

"A daughter," said Paris proudly, "and she will be a beauty, just like her mother."

Legolas smiled; he was glad that Paris was talking about something else. It helped him to take his mind off his predicament. He listened with genuine interest as the man talked about how his daughter had reacted to meeting him. However, as happy as Paris was, he had not forgotten about his friend's problem.

"Legolas," said Paris. "I have to ask you this; how are you feeling, truly?"

"Me? Don't worry about me, Paris," replied the elf. "I'm not the one who's contracted blood poisoning." Only when he had said it did he realize that it wasn't true. He did have blood poisoning, even if it was of a different sort.

"I do worry," said Paris, "and so does everyone else. I know you try to hide your ailment, Legolas, but we can all see it. You are paler, more withdrawn—"

"How else would you expect me to be?" demanded the elf. Did he have no right to be withdrawn? Must they complain about that too? "I have lost my sight, my hearing. I can't hear the speech or the trees or the whisper of the wind in the distance. I can no longer maintain my balance when a _mule_ decides to stop suddenly—" He stopped himself in mid-sentence, aware that he was shouting now, and the soldiers on the wall had heard him and they were curious. "I apologize, Paris. I just..."

"Have you told Aragorn?" asked the Trojan. Instead of being angry at being shouted at for no apparent reason, Paris was concerned, and Legolas felt a wave of gratitude towards the man. They were all brothers now, and they seemed to understand each other.

"Not yet," said Legolas.

"But you will?" pressed Paris. He could be as stubborn and persistent as the rest of them when he put his mind to it, or perhaps it was a bad habit which he had picked up from the others.

Legolas sighed, and then nodded. "I will, once Balian is recovered," he said. "Aragorn is busy enough at the moment."

* * *

**A/N: **Okay, I thought the story was drawing to a close, but apparently, the guys have different ideas, and there seems to be a few details which I had not thought about but which need to be put down. So, I'm predicting that there are about two shorter chapters, or one long chapter, to go. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, even if there is a complete lack of action.


	26. Hope

**Chance Encounter: Legacy of the Third Age**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything except for Agnes, Fulk, Heloise, and the repulsive Ambrosius.

**Smithy: **My Christmas was great, thanks. Paris makes for an interesting father, because he's only just grown up (mentally, that is). It'll be a wonderful learning experience for him.

**Mary-emy: **I don't think I will be doing a Harry Potter/Lord of the Rings crossover any time in the near future, but if I do, I'll consider your suggestion.

**Chapter 25: Hope**

With Balian bedridden and under the care of King Elessar, and everyone else being busy with family reunions, Agnes and Heloise found themselves quite alone in this strange city of white stone. They sat together on a marble bench in the courtyard of the citadel, watching the servants hurrying past them. No one paid them much attention. That other man, the Steward, had taken Fulk away to rest, but he seemed to have forgotten about the two young women.

"Are you scared, milady?" asked Heloise softly as she tried to take in the sight of the vast courtyard. Everything was white, even the sapling in the middle.

"Do you think I can be any other way?" said Agnes in reply. She fiddled with the filthy and ragged skirt of her dress. The girl stared at the clear blue Gondorian sky, wishing that someone could explain to her about what exactly had happened, and what was going to happen next. Her future had never been so uncertain, and for the first time, she was choosing her path. Her father was not here to tell her what to do. Balian would not tell her what to do. There were completely new rules in this place and she had yet to learn them.

Truth be told, she felt she had no place here. She did not belong amongst great ladies who fought alongside their husbands. She did not belong amongst kings and great lords who protected kingdoms. Here, in this magnificent city, she felt so small and insignificant. Deep down, she truly wished that none of this had happened. Yes, she had been frightened to marry Balian —or any other man for that matter— but at least she knew what was going to happen. If Philippe and that repulsive cardinal had not interfered, she would be the lady of pretty little Nièvre and probably mother to a babe.

Freedom frightened her. The realization that she, and no one else, was in control of her life, frightened her. Never before had it fallen to her to make decisions about what she wanted to do, and she had no idea what choices she was going to make. Before, she had listened to her father. Her rash decision to try and warn Balian had thrown her head along into this mess, and then many other factors had controlled her life.

She was so occupied with her thoughts that when she heard someone speaking to her, she was completely taken by surprise and leapt to her feet in fright. Standing before her was the most beautiful vision she had ever beheld. At first, she thought she was looking at the Virgin Mary, and she immediately crossed herself. However, upon closer inspection, she realized she was actually facing the Queen of Gondor, whom she had glimpsed in the Houses of Healing.

"I startled you," said the Queen, giving her a benevolent smile. "Forgive me, for I had not meant to."

"No, milady..." began Agnes. Words seemed to evade her, and she struggled to string together something coherent. "You didn't...I mean, you do not have to apologize..."

"You are frightened of me, are you not?" asked Arwen. "Do not be afraid. I do not bite, nor do I shout. That is Estel's task. Mine is to placate the courtiers and to give a sense of warmth and familiarity to our subjects. I am as a mother to all of Gondor."

Agnes could only nod mutely, for she was completely awestruck by the Queen's beauty. She had known from her brief glimpse of Arwen that she was beautiful, but up close, that beauty was inhuman. She seemed to glow from within, just as Legolas had done before he had taken that poisoned arrow. Trying not to be rude, Agnes avoided looking the Queen in the eye and focused on her beautiful dark tresses instead. Unlike most ladies back in France, Queen Arwen let her long hair flow loose down her back, with only a little of it braided to keep it out of her face. No doubt her hair made everyone other woman envious of her, for it was as shiny and smooth as black silk.

"Come with me...Agnes, I believe you are called?" said Arwen.

The girl managed to curtsey when Arwen said her name, although she looked as if she was about to topple over. "I am Agnes, milady," she said in a shaky voice.

Arwen turned to the maidservant, who was cowering in the background. "Then you must be Heloise," she said. "Elizabeth mentioned you two, and knowing how careful men tend to be, I had guessed that Faramir would have forgotten about you. He was much too busy trying to stop Imad and that other pale man from fighting." She held out her hands to the two frightened young women. "You must be tired. I have had the servants prepare refreshments, baths and fresh clothes for you."

"You are too kind, milady," said Agnes, curtseying again. She cursed her lack of grace. Why couldn't she glide around the way the Queen seemed to do so effortlessly?

The two of them trotted after Arwen, almost having to run at times to try and keep up. The Queen led them through a maze of stone corridors, stopping every now and then to exchange greetings and a few words with the servants. It was obvious that they adored her, and she, much to Agnes' amazement, seemed to know all their names and something about their families. Perhaps the common belief that queens were arrogant and aloof was incorrect.

They came to a large sunlit room with curtained-off sections. Scented steam filled the room. "I will come back for you later, after you have washed and refreshed yourselves," said Arwen. Agnes and Heloise could only nod gratefully and stammer their thanks. Baths were rare luxuries, and they'd forgotten what hot water felt like against skin.

Maidservants led them behind the curtains. To their delight, they found not one bathtub, but two. Each was full of steaming hot water with rose petals floating on top. Beside the wooden bath-tubs were stands bearing scented soaps, scrubbing brushes, linen flannels, and thick towels. There were also low tables within reach of the occupants of the bathtubs, and on those were trays of tiny pastries, both sweet and savoury. Goblets of fresh water sat beside the trays.

"Oh dear Lord," whispered Agnes. She had never seen such luxuries before. Her father had not been fond of spending money on unnecessary things such as scented soaps and had she become the lady of Nièvre, she suspected that she would not have had these things either. It wasn't a rich fief, and Balian seemed to be the type of man who did not care much about baths.

She let the maidservants help her out of her filthy clothes and slid into the hot water. It felt sinfully good, and she imagined that Heaven could not be better. Skilled fingers teased the tangles out of her hair and washed it with soap which smelled of honeysuckle. Agnes allowed the maidservants to help her, mainly because she was much too tired to do it herself.

Every now and then, she reached out lazily to select one of those dainty pastries. Gondor had very fine food, apparently. The pastry was light and buttery, and the fillings were rich with layers of flavours. She would care about the sins of indulging later, for she had fasted —not on purpose— for far too long.

* * *

Will rounded the corner rapidly on his way back to his own quarters. Elizabeth was probably there already. However, being an admiral of the Gondorian Royal Navy meant that he had had to deal with a number of issues —such as excessive drunkenness— before he could go home.

Already, he could hear the delighted laughter of his children. Elizabeth was probably telling them about the cleaned-up version of their adventures, not that she could corrupt Willie anymore, after all of Jack's good work. However, Little Jane was still sweet and innocent, and both Will and Elizabeth wanted her to stay that way for a few more years before Jack and Barbossa's influence took its toll.

He raced into the quarters which his family occupied. Willie and Jane immediately turned to look at him. Then, with a squeal, tiny little Jane launched herself at her father, who bent down to scoop her up and whirl her around. "How's my darling little princess?" said Will. Jane giggled and placed a slobbery kiss on his cheek.

"Papa," said Willie, "did you really throw away that nice shiny jewel? Uncle Jack must have been annoyed."

"That jewel was more trouble than it was worth," said Will, settling Jane on his hip. "And yes, Jack was annoyed, and he accused me of drinking too much absinthe, again."

"Well, did you?" asked his son.

"Of course not! I was completely sober when I threw that blasted stone into the sea. Well, Willie, how have you been?"

"I guess I have been well," said the boy. "Things just weren't the same while you were gone. I did a lot of practice —sword practice, Papa. What other sort of practice were you thinking of? Honestly, you can be as bad as Uncle Jack sometimes. Uncle Imad taught me his way of fighting, and sometimes Aunt Éowyn made me practise with a longsword."

"And what about your other lessons?" interrupted Elizabeth.

"Er, lessons?" said Willie. He looked down at the floor and began to trace patterns on it with his toe.

"Elizabeth," chided Will. He set Jane back down on the floor. The little girl immediately stuck her thumb in her mouth. She didn't want Mama to get angry at Willie. When Mama got angry, she was grumpy to everyone, and it frightened Jane. "We've only just gotten back. You can interrogate Willie about his lessons later, surely?"

Willie gave his father a grateful look. There were times when even Will could not persuade Elizabeth to change her mind, and he sincerely hoped that this was not one of those times. Besides, he did not see the point of learning French, especially since the only Frenchman he knew was Uncle Balian, and they certainly had no problem understanding one another. His mother wasn't making him learn Greek, or Elvish, so why did he have to learn _French_, of all languages?

"Mr. Turner, you do understand the importance of education, do you not?" demanded Elizabeth.

"Yes," said Will mildly, "and I am certain that our children will end up as well educated members of Gondorian society who will contribute much to this kingdom."

"And what about their home?" asked Elizabeth. "What if, one day, we all have to return to where we belong? They know nothing of England, of France...how will they cope?"

"Is that what you're worried about?" asked Will in surprise. He had not thought of that. Ever since he had been reunited with his family in Gondor, he had planned to stay here. It was a safe haven; no one was hunting them. He had a profession and a great number of friends. There was no reason why he should return home to England or to the Caribbean. Gondor was home now. "If we get taken back to wherever it is that we're supposed to be, I guess Willie's French would be the least of our worries." He put an arm around his wife's shoulders and held her close. Elizabeth put her ear against his chest and closed her eyes, letting his steady heartbeat soothe her. "I have no doubt that our friends will come with us. We can't be separated. Can you imagine Gimli walking around in London?"

"I can easily imagine us all walking around in Rome," murmured Elizabeth.

"Not walking; we were running."

* * *

The quiet murmuring voices slowly brought him to consciousness. At first, Balian could not recognize where he was. Then, bit by bit, his memories came back to him. Once again, he was in the houses of healing. At least this time, he seemed to be wearing more clothes than bandages. The door was open, and two healers were involved in a very intense discussion outside his room. It didn't seem to have anything to do with medicines.

"...the king is...executing him, but...best to wait for...to be there..."

Balian strained to hear what they were saying, and wished that he had elven hearing abilities. That would make life much easier. He shifted slightly so that he could just get a little bit closer to the door, but he had forgotten about the reason why he was in the Houses of Healings in the first place. A groan escaped his lips as the slight movement reminded him of said reason.

The healers stopped their conversation and rushed into his room. "You are awake, milord," said the older of the two. The smile he wore looked foreign on his serious lined face. He turned to the younger healer, possibly his assistant. "Tell the king."

"How long have I been here for?" croaked Balian. He grimaced at the sound of his voice. The healer put a cup of water to his lips, and he drank it gratefully, letting the liquid slide down his parched throat. He realized, with much glee, that this water did not taste of stale leather.

"You have been sleeping for three days," said the healer. "There were times when we thought that we'd lost you, for fever raged in your body, but you lived through it, and so did we." He took away the cup, much to Balian's chagrin. "Enough for now. You do not want to make yourself sick again. Your son often came to see you."

"Where is he now?"

"I believe Lady Andromache took him away not moments ago. The boy needed his rest, as do you, my lord Defender."

"I have been sleeping for three days, you said," protested Balian.

"I was being kind when I said 'sleeping'," said the healer calmly. He was used to stubborn patients who insisted that they were fine when they were obviously not. That described half the men in the Gondorian army, and everyone in the Gondorian Elite Guard. He had been a healer for years now, and he had known many of those soldiers since they had been boys. "In actual fact, you were unconscious from fever, and that hardly qualifies as decent rest." He held up a hand to stop yet another barrage of protests. He'd heard them all before, and he doubted the Defender could think of something new. "If you want to shorten your stay, then I suggest you do as I tell you." He strode away, leaving Balian staring at his retreating back.

* * *

"Alleluia!" sang Jack when he heard that Balian was awake and already trying to escape his bed. "This calls for celebration!" He grabbed another bottle of wine, only to have it snatched away by Anna-Maria.

"Jack," said Will absent-mindedly as he sorted through the reports about the Gondorian Navy. Apparently, there had been a few raids while he had been away, but he had trained his men well enough to deal with them. It seemed that, as impossible as it sounded, Ragetti and Pintel were both suitable for promotion. They needed a few more ships to patrol the shores and new men to captain those ships. "You have not stopped celebrating ever since we've gotten back."

"We're alive, Whelp!" cried Jack, trying to take his wine back from Anna-Maria, with very little success. "Isn't that a cause for merry-making?"

"It is, but you've been merry-makin' fer three days!" said Anna-Maria, stubbornly holding the bottle of wine out of reach.

"Ah, my sweet Anna," said Jack, giving her a winning smile. "It is a good thing to be able to make merry forever."

"Sweet Anna?" said Anna-Maria. Her expression was unreadable. "You've definitely had too much to drink, Jack Sparra."

"Oi!" cried Jack. "Can't I be nice without being called drunk?"

"Can you deny that you are drunk?" asked Achilles, taking the bottle from Anna-Maria and pouring some wine into his goblet. There was no doubt about it. Dorwinian was definitely the best wine he had ever tasted.

"No, but that's beside the point!" said the pirate, glaring at the Greek. "Besides, gettin' drunk's good for me. It makes me more creative, an' that's gonna come in handy because we get to deal with that repulsive bald-pated unholy cowl-wearin' hogger of shiny stones."

"I must say that Balian is probably going to limit your creativity," said Elizabeth.

"That's why we make him drunk too," said Jack brightly.

"That's easy enough, but you'll have to get past Aragorn first," Gimli reminded the rest of them. The dwarf was contentedly puffing on a pipe and filling the room with smoke. Even the open windows did not seem to help much. He was intent on making up for all the time spent in miserable cold Europe without his beloved pipeweed.

"And that has just been made more difficult by the fact that he has overheard you," said Aragorn, coming into the room. "I assure you that no one will be making Balian drunk." Jack's crestfallen expression did nothing to change his mind. "Amber-Rose—"

"Amber-Rose?" said Jack, wrinkling his nose. "That sounds like a bloody girl's name."

"It's Ambrosius, Laddie," said Gimli, giving the King of Gondor a wink. "Ambrosius de...something rather."

"Ambrosius de Magio," said Achilles. "And you were saying, milord...?"

"I was saying that the man will be judged according to the laws of Gondor, now that he is here," said Aragorn. "Balian will probably have some influence in deciding the man's punishment, but I do not want to know what it is that you want to do, Jack Sparrow. You are much too creative, and I do not want to see the darker side of that creativity."

"Well, that's just disappointin'," grumbled Jack. He sauntered over to where Achilles was and, catching the Greek off-guard, snatched his goblet of wine right out of his hand. "I'm gonna drown me disappointment in drink." With that, he tipped all the contents of the vessel down his throat before Achilles could even say anything.

* * *

Agnes followed Queen Arwen carefully, trying not to fall behind, but keeping a constant distance between herself and the Queen. There were so many new rules to learn, and she felt that perhaps she was not suited to being one of the Queen's ladies in waiting, despite the fact that Arwen had assured her that everything would be fine, and that this would only be temporary. After all, she needed someone to be her guide for these first days. Balian was not there to help, and all the others were busy, trying to reclaim the lives which they had had before they had been drawn into yet another misadventure.

The dress she wore was a bit loose, for it had been made for a woman with a bigger frame. However, it would have to do until the tailors finished Agnes' wardrobe. She had protested when Arwen had ordered one for her, but no one argued with the Queen, and she had capitulated pretty quickly. It wasn't that Arwen frightened her, but she had a manner of making people feel that she was right.

The Queen swept into her own spacious quarters, and Agnes tentatively stepped over the threshold. The rooms were full of light, and the furniture was all made of intricately carved wood. Leaves seemed to be the dominant pattern. One wall was dominated by a huge painting of a beautiful slender woman, who was dancing in a forest with a dark-haired man following her. There seemed to be an uncanny resemblance between the woman in the painting and the Queen. The figures were so lifelike that Agnes almost expected them to leap off the wall. The art of Gondor far surpassed that of Europe. She wondered what the story behind the painting was. Was that the Queen dancing for King Elessar? Was that their courtship?

There were other girls in the room, most of them just a little older than Agnes was. They rose when they saw the Queen, and curtseyed in the Gondorian manner. While it was similar to the type of curtsey that Agnes had learned back at home, there were slight differences which were quite noticeable. She would have to learn how to do it, if she was to stay here.

Arwen indicated for them to straighten themselves. "This is Agnes," she said to her other ladies in waiting. "She has newly arrived in Gondor. I trust that you will all welcome her and help her to adjust."

"Yes, milady," they all chorused. Some of them peered at her curiously from beneath lowered eyelashes. She was so pale and thin, and they did not understand why she wore a veil over her hair. A few of them whispered to one another. Presumably, what they were saying was not quite fit for polite conversation, because Arwen looked sternly in their way, causing them to fall silent at once.

The new girl could not help but feel intimidated in their presence. They all seemed to have luscious dark hair and none of them were shy about showing off their long tresses. Unlike the Queen, who did not weigh herself down with metal chains and glittering stones, except for her wedding ring and a thin silver circlet on her head, each of her ladies in waiting all wore at least one precious gem. Gondor, it seemed, was a rich country, despite the fact that they had just survived a war.

Arwen sat down on one of the long couches and patted the spot beside her, indicating that Agnes should sit down. The girl did so, albeit uncomfortably. It did not feel proper to sit beside the Queen, as if they were equals. "How find you Minas Tirith?" asked Arwen, sensing the girl's discomfort.

"It is very...grand," replied Agnes.

"You are intimidated?" said Arwen.

Agnes nodded. "I feel so small, and lost," she admitted. "At least in the wilderness in Europe, everything was familiar."

"And you had Balian with you," added Arwen. "He makes you feel safe, does he not?"

"Yes," said Agnes softly, looking down at her hands. She missed his solid presence more than she had thought she would.

The Queen smiled. "Never fear," she said. "Minas Tirith might not be you home now, but it will be in time. The city will become familiar to you, and you will learn these new ways. I have been told that you are an intelligent girl."

"Not so intelligent," said Agnes. "I like to read, but I cannot seem to form my own ideas."

"I doubt that," said Arwen. "Surely riding to your betrothed's rescue was your idea?"

Agnes blushed. "We weren't betrothed yet," she whispered. "And we still aren't."

"You need to trust in yourself," said Arwen. "You have strength within you. You just have to find it."

"What strength do I have?" asked Agnes. "I am always afraid. I'm not like you, Your Highness, nor am I like Madame Elizabeth or Demoiselle Anna-Maria."

Arwen laughed, and her voice was more beautiful than the sound of the bubbling of a clear mountain brook. "Everyone has their own fears. Even brave men like Estel and Balian have fears." She took Agnes' hands in her own. "Courage is facing your fears and finding a way to overcome them." The Queen patted the girl's hand comfortingly, and Agnes got the fleeting feeling that she was talking to her mother instead of the Queen of Gondor. No wonder everyone loved her. She was more than just beautiful; she was so kind, just as a mother ought to be.

A tiny figure darted into the room, followed by a flustered looking woman. "Eldarion!" exclaimed Arwen, catching her son as he leapt at her. Her slender figure belied her strength and agility. "Are you running from your nurse again?"

"Nana!" cried the little boy. "Look!" He showed his mother another little wooden horse. However, this one was so well-crafted that it looked as if it could move. "Uncle 'Dan gave me this!"

"Elladan is here?" said Arwen, getting up abruptly. Turning to Agnes, she began to explain. "Elladan is my brother, and he is the lord of Rivendell, which lies to the west. I have not seen him in a while, and I do not know what could possibly bring him to Minas Tirith."

"Perhaps he just wants to see you, milady," ventured Agnes.

"Yes, that is one possibility," said Arwen. "Or perhaps he wants to see for himself that Legolas is truly back in Gondor, and in one piece. They are close friends." She got up. "You may stay here and become better acquainted with the other ladies, Agnes." The Queen glided away, moving slower this time so that her son might be able to keep up with her. The little boy was already chattering away in a strange tongue which Agnes guessed was Elvish. Arwen patiently listened to him, and then laughed at something that he had said. The two of them looked so happy together. Agnes watched them, and wondered if she would ever find such happiness in her life.

"You came with the Defender?" asked one of the girls. Her sharp green eyes were lined with dark kohl, and her voice did not sound very friendly at all, at least, not to Agnes' ears.

"I know not of what you speak," said Agnes. Everyone was looking at her now, and she hated the attention. Their gazes felt so judgemental.

"Oh, I think you do," said the girl with a knowing little smile. Perhaps a wolf looked this way before he grabbed a hapless little lamb by the neck.

"Truly, I do not," protested Agnes. "Who is the Defender?"

"Lord Balian the Defender," said the girl. "Now will you admit it?"

"Yes, I came with Balian," said Agnes, puzzled. Why would that matter to the other ladies in waiting?

"For someone who feels that she can call him by his name alone, you know very little about him if you do not even know that he is called Lord Balian the Defender here in Gondor," said the green eyed girl. "Do you not think that you are a little too bold?"

What was she implying? Her voice was so condescending, as was the way she looked at Agnes. Stranger or not, Agnes was a noblewoman, and she deserved the respect which was accorded to her status. "In France, where both Lord Balian and I hail from, he is known as Lord Balian of Nièvre," she said defensively.

"What were you back in France, Agnes?" asked the one with green eyes. She seemed to be the leader.

"I was a nobleman's daughter," said Agnes.

"You are curiously pale, Agnes," said the girl. "Did your father lock you in the dark?"

"My father did no such thing," said Agnes. Roger might not have been very kind to her, but he was still her father, and it was her duty to speak for him when there was need to.

The green-eyed one simply shook her head with a small smile, as if she knew everything, and then turned back to her needlework. All the other girls lowered their eyes and turned away from Agnes. After a while, whispers started, and sometimes Agnes caught the sound of her own name. Giggles broke up the whispers. It was going to be a very long day.

* * *

Aragorn had been meaning to talk to Legolas. His friend had been unnaturally pale lately, and he seemed to be avoiding him for some strange reason. When he had asked the others about it, they had looked at each other, and then told him to ask the elf. It was infuriating. The king found the elf in the library, poring over books about poisons and their antidotes. Leather bound volumes were scattered all over the tables and the chairs.

"Legolas," began Aragorn. "Is something wrong? You have not been yourself lately."

"Nothing's wrong, Estel," said the elf, looking up from his books.

"If nothing is wrong, then why are you reading about poisons?" asked the man. "You have never taken much interest in herb lore." He gripped the elf by the shoulders and stared intently at him. "I know something is not right. You can tell me, mellon-nin. I am here to help you, but I can't do it if you won't let me."

"It's so hard to talk about," said Legolas, pulling away from Aragorn and walking to the window. His footsteps seemed unusually heavy.

"I know you hate asking for help, but it's nothing to be ashamed of," said Aragorn.

"I do not know where to start."

"The beginning is always a good place to start. There is no one here, Legolas; it's only you and me."

It took a long time and many glasses of wine, but Aragorn finally managed to coax the story out of Legolas. "I feel mortal, Estel," said the elf, once he had finished. He sank into a chair tiredly and began to rub his temples. "Sometimes, I wonder if I _am_ mortal."

Aragorn sat silently opposite his friend, watching him. It pained him to see strong and cheerful Legolas like this. Where was the elf who had had the mood to jest when all the Fellowship had despaired on cold Caradhras? Where was the elf who had tried to get Gimli to imitate a donkey? "Have hope, my friend," he said at last. His voice was soft. "I have not heard of such a poison, but perhaps Elladan might have."

"I don't want this news to spread," said Legolas. "What would my father say?"

"You will have to tell King Thranduil sooner or later," said Aragorn. "And besides, Elladan might be able to help us. He is Lord of Imladris now, and Adar has left many of his books behind."

"I hate repeating it," said Legolas. "Every time, I am forced to remember how helpless and weak I am now."

"You are not weak, Legolas," said Aragorn. "Never think that. If you were weak, you would be fading, but you are not." At least, Aragorn hoped he was not. Sometimes, the signs were slow to emerge. "And being mortal is not so bad. We survive, don't we?"

Legolas managed a small smile. "You do survive, but not very well," he said. "If it wasn't for that odd streak of luck, most of you would have died many times over."

"That is true," said Aragorn, "but luck does not save us; our friends do. And as long as you have your friends with you, Legolas, there is still hope."

* * *

It was quiet in the gardens of the Houses of Healing. There were only a few people there, taking advantage of the fair weather to enjoy the fresh air. Agnes kept her eyes on the ground as she strolled through the gardens with Balian. She had come to visit him. His colour seemed much improved, and his complaints about the boredom had proven to be quite amusing. According to Queen Arwen, he said the same things each time he got wounded and had to go to the Houses of Healing to receive treatment. However, this was the first time Agnes had heard him complain about such trivial things.

As they walked, Agnes took in the sight of all the strange plants. Trees in Middle Earth seemed more majestic than those back in France. Perhaps it was the presence of elves which made all the difference. The sunlight cast dappled shadows over them. Somewhere up in the branches of a particularly tall tree, a bird warbled. It was good to be free of all the pointed whispers and giggles.

"I have been meaning to ask you about how you have been faring," said Balian, jolting her out of her thoughts. "How have you been?"

"Gondor is quite different from France, isn't it?" said Agnes slowly.

"It is indeed," said Balian. "Are you happy here?" Trust him to ask such a direct question.

"I am having some difficulties," she said. It felt good to be able to talk about it. She had not told Arwen about the way her other ladies in waiting had been treating her, for fear that the Queen would think that she was making a fuss about nothing. At any rate, she did not want to cause more trouble for Arwen, who had been extremely kind to her and Heloise already. "Some of the women at court...they don't seem to like anyone different."

"It is the same at any court," said Balian.

"I feel so alone, sometimes, and so helpless," said Agnes. "They laugh at my lack of relations, my lack of status, my lack of wealth...I shouldn't care, but I do."

"If you are so miserable then you should not stay at court," said Balian quietly. Agnes looked up at him in alarm. He had a thoughtful expression on his face, and he seemed to be uncertain. "Agnes, you are here because of me," he began haltingly. "I feel responsible for you. In Europe, I had nothing to give you, being a heretic and a fugitive. Here in Gondor, I have some influence. I can offer you my prestige and my protection."

"What are you trying to say?" whispered Agnes, staring at him. That sounded so ominous.

Balian cleared his throat and stared straight ahead. His face seemed unusually flushed. "What I'm saying is that if you are willing, you can live with me. I know you do not love me as a woman loves a man, but we only need to stop the gossips from talking..." He trailed off.

Agnes digested this proposal for a moment. "Milord," she said in a shaking voice. "Are you asking me to be...to be your wife?"

"I am," he said. "That is, if you are willing. We need only be married in name—" He did not get to say any more, for he had to leap to catch Agnes as she fell in a dead faint.

'Dear Lord,' he thought as he carried her over to one of the stone benches. 'Does the prospect of becoming my wife terrify her that much?'

* * *

**A/N: **I hope you enjoyed the chapter. I felt that Agnes needed a bit more 'screen time', as it were, and she does need to find her place in Middle Earth. Anyway, this ending seems to be a bit longer than I'd anticipated. To those of you who are wondering, I am planning on giving Thranduil a cameo in this fic. By the way, the link to the video trailer for my next crossover is now on my profile, if anyone's interested in taking a sneak peek.


	27. Justice

**Chance Encounter: Legacy of the Third Age**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything that you recognize. I'm just borrowing them without permission, but with every intention of returning them to their rightful owners once I'm done, savvy?

**Chapter 26: Justice**

Jack spat out a mouthful of rum all over Balian as he burst out laughing. His friend's irritated expression only made him laugh harder. "You proposed, and the girl _fainted_?" he wheezed. He, Balian, Anna-Maria, Will, Elizabeth, Achilles, Briseis, Faramir and Éowyn were all in one of the libraries, discussing what had happened between Agnes and Balian. Paris hadn't been able to come, for Helen was not feeling too well and he had to look after Hermione for the afternoon.

"Truly, Jack," said Balian, trying to brush off the rum. "It is not that amusing." He regretted telling them about his proposal to Agnes, and her reaction to it. At first, he had been seeking advice, but he had not expected them to laugh at him. Yes, he _knew_ that he was probably the least prolific man in the company, but he'd tried. They weren't helping things, at any rate, and he was beginning to wonder if this whole idea was a mistake.

"Oh, it's funny, all right!" said Jack, laughing again.

"I'm not sure why she would find me that terrifying," said the Frenchman. "We have been through so much together—I thought she knew me well enough."

"I don't think it's really _you_," said Elizabeth, placing a comforting hand on his arm. "It's the prospect of marriage."

"And your way of proposing is quite terrifying," added Faramir.

"What else was I supposed to say?" asked Balian in frustration. "We both know that this isn't a love match."

"You could have been a little less sudden," Will pointed out. "Unexpected proposals tend to make women faint."

"They do not," said Elizabeth, pressing herself up against her husband coyly. "_I_ did not faint when you proposed, William Turner, and I'll have you know that _you_ proposed in the middle of a battle."

"Actually, I first proposed in your father's house," said Will. Two could play this game. He hooked an arm around Elizabeth's waist and held her against him. She was so warm and lithe...ah, that could wait until a little later. "That second proposal, I believe, was expected." He bent his head down, his gaze never leaving hers.

"Oh please!" said Jack, flapping his hands like a flustered matron. "Go get a room!"

"I thought we were talking about Balian's problems here," added Faramir, who looked embarrassed.

"I think we should just exclude Admiral Turner and Captain Swann," suggested Éowyn sagely. "We won't be getting much sense out of them."

"Good idea," said Anna-Maria, all but shoving out the passionate couple. She closed the door behind them. "Now, where were we? Ah, yes, Balian's proposal skills."

"How on earth did you manage to seduce a queen, mate?" asked Jack.

"If I remember correctly," said Éowyn with a smirk, "she seduced _him_, so he wouldn't have had to do much."

"Are you here to help me or make life difficult for me?" demanded Balian. He wished that Aragorn would send a well timed summon, or better yet, that the floor would open up and swallow him. He could face armies of thousands and not break sweat, but being the butt of every joke terrified him. A man had his dignity, after all.

Faramir put an arm around Balian's shoulders. "We're here to do both," he said amiably. "That's what friends are for." He grinned as Balian glared at him half-heartedly.

"What we really have to do is let Agnes adjust," said Briseis. "Everything was so sudden. The poor girl is probably in shock. Give her a few days, Balian, and when she's calmer, ask her about how she's feeling."

"As if you can talk," said Anna-Maria playfully. "You were going to _kill_ him—" she jerked her head in Achilles' direction. "—and then all of a sudden, you became lovers. No adjusting was required, it seemed."

Achilles simply grinned and pulled his wife closer to him. He nuzzled her neck, eliciting another loud groan from Jack.

"It would seem that the meeting has concluded," said Éowyn.

* * *

A procession of elves, all dressed in browns and greens, with the exception of the one in the lead, made their way up to Minas Tirith. One of them carried a standard which bore the emblem of Eryn Lasgalen. The elf lord in the lead was stern of countenance. A crown of mithril leaves perched on his golden head. His cloak was of white silk, lined with fur and threaded with real silver. Hardly anything escaped the gaze of his wise grey eyes. He took note of every patch of yellowed grass, every bump in the land.

Thranduil, Middle Earth's only remaining elvenking, had never been to Minas Tirith before, although he had heard enough about it from his son. It was not curiosity which drove him to visit the White City, however, but a resolute and unyielding need which even he could not explain. He considered himself a rational elf; why had he acted so impulsively this time? Was it some hidden trait which had decided to manifest itself? Certainly, Legolas had to inherit his impulsiveness from somewhere, and probably not from his sweet mother.

Finding an excuse to come to Gondor had been difficult. Even though the entire world believed that it would be proper for kings to communicate with each other, there was no need for one to actually traverse out of his own territory to pay his neighbours a visit. Of course, Eomer had done that, but he was different; his sister had married into Gondor. While Thranduil's son was often in Gondor nowadays, he was there as more or less an ambassador. With his people so well presented, there was actually no need for Thranduil to come to Gondor.

However, the Elvenking felt that he had to come. Something was not quite right. Worry weighted down his heart like lead. He had no idea where that anxiety came from, and he had to conclude that it had something to do with his son. Politically speaking, Legolas was of little importance, being the youngest of four sons. In his father's heart, however, he held a significant place. Thranduil could not deny that he had favourites amongst his children. It was a problem which every parent had, he was sure. Of all his sons, he loved Legolas the most for his open heart and headstrong nature. Outwardly, he might have reprimanded him for being so rash, but secretly, he admired the way his son so readily made decisions adjusted as situations arose.

The procession came to a halt before the open gates of Minas Tirith. While a normal ambassador would have ridden through them without a second thought, Thranduil was not going to do that. After all, he was the Elvenking. He turned to the elf at his left. "Thorontur," he said. "Ride up to the Citadel and tell them that we have arrived."

The elf bowed his dark head in deference to his king and murmured a few words to his horse. The animal sprang forwards and through the gates. Men darted out of the way to avoid its rapid hooves as they clattered on the stone streets of Minas Tirith.

* * *

To say that Legolas was not prepared was an understatement. His father was here. How could this be? Didn't he have enough to deal with back in Eryn Lasgalen?

"You have to go and see him, Legolas," said Arwen. "He is your father."

"I know that, Arwen," replied the elven prince, "but how am I to tell him of my condition. You know of his temper, and I do not want him to blame the wrong people."

"It is always a good idea to start from the beginning," said the Queen of Gondor. "That way, he will know all the causes, and will not be laying unnecessary blame on anyone."

"It would hurt him gravely to know that I might be mortal," said Legolas in a broken whisper. "His love is fierce, protective—overprotective, even. He will be furious that he was not able to protect me from this. In his eyes, I am still a child, and probably always will be."

"That is the way of all parents," said Arwen knowingly, "but if he finds out about your condition, he will be even more hurt, believing that you do not trust him enough to tell him."

Legolas looked towards the Heavens. 'Elbereth help me,' he thought. Telling his father about this was difficult enough. Telling Thranduil about his condition using the right words and making sure that the Elvenking did not misdirect his anger was even harder.

* * *

Elessar knew how to greet guests; Thranduil could say that much of this king of men. An elvish upbringing, he decided, was very important, whether one was mortal or not. He had heard rumours of Legolas' latest acquaintances and they had seemed like such a barbarous lot. Pirates and blacksmiths! What had his son been thinking?

He glimpsed the king of Gondor as the man and his retinue came down all the way from the seventh level to greet him. His son stood out amongst the men; a golden beam amidst the dark heads. Even the Elvenking could not help but smile, which did nothing for his reputation for a fierce and stern warrior, not that he cared. He was simply very glad to see his son, and even he could forget the mask of kingship and be a simple father once in a while.

The two companies stopped within a few feet of each other. Both the elves and men bowed. Elessar had had no need to bow, but he did so anyway, probably out of respect for Thranduil, as he was the only Elvenking in Middle Earth, and also because he was Legolas' father and therefore much older than any of them. "Greetings, King Thranduil," said the man in flawless Sindarin. He was much cleaner than Thranduil had remembered him to be. When the Elvenking had first met the son of Arathorn, he had been a mud covered ranger dressed in ragged garb. Of course, a king could not appear like that before his people, and the Evenstar probably would have something to say about her husband's appearance as well. "What brings you to Gondor?"

"King Elessar," he replied just as courteously and formally. "I have come as a father seeking his son."

"Indeed," said the man smoothly. "Prince Legolas has not returned to Eryn Lasgalen for a while, I believe."

At that, Legolas stepped forwards and bowed to his father, as the law of his people dictated that he should do. As soon as Thranduil saw him clearly, he knew that something was wrong. He slid off his horse and almost ran to embrace his son. "Ion-nin," he said, holding his precious golden child at an arm's length. "What happened to you?" His eyes searched his pale face; unnaturally pale face. "Tell me, Legolas."

"Adar, it is nothing—" Legolas began uncomfortably, but Thranduil would have none of it. He would have interrogated Legolas there and then if Elessar had not intervened.

"My lord," he said. "Perhaps you would like to go to the Citadel first. I am sure that you will want to speak with Prince Legolas in private." He glanced meaningfully at the crowds who had gathered to watch the arrival of the Elvenking.

"Yes, of course," said Thranduil, recovering his composure. He gave Legolas a look which stated clearly that the interrogation had only been delayed. His son was going to tell him everything, whether he wanted to or not.

* * *

Jack remained at the back of the King's retinue and snuck glances at Legolas' father. He could see where Legolas had gotten his colouring and looks from. The resemblance between father and son was unmistakable, although they looked more like brothers. The pirate had expected Thranduil to look a lot older, perhaps about Aragorn's age or even Priam's age. And he was definitely terrifying. That intense gaze of his made it seem as if he could see everything, including the thoughts inside men's heads.

"Are you cowering, Jack?" Achilles whispered to him.

"Of course not," retorted the pirate. "I'm keepin' at a safe distance. What about you? Is the great Achilles cowerin' in fear at the sight of the immortal warrior king?"

"I, my friend, am being a wise man and treating the king with the respect which he deserves," said Achilles without even blinking. "Mere mortals do not deserve to bask in the light of his presence."

"For the first time, methinks I feel a wee bit sorry fer that unholy bastard who calls hisself a cardinal," said Jack.

"I am sure that King Thranduil will be able to do a lot more to him than you and I ever could," said the Greek.

* * *

For one of the few times in his life, Thranduil could not speak even if he had wanted to. He was mired in disbelief, and fervently praying that this was some foolish prank which these children had decided to play on him. He looked around at their solemn faces. Dread seeped into his bones. He could only grip his son tightly by the shoulders, staring at that beloved face. "Say it isn't so," he whispered.

"No one knows, actually," said Legolas, not that this declaration of uncertainty made anyone feel better. "Adar,I..." He trailed off as his father embraced him tightly, as if he was a child again. So far, the Elvenking was reacting better than anyone had expected.

As he held his son, dismay turned into fury. Why was this happening to Legolas of all people? His son did not deserve this, and if he hadn't gotten involved with that ragged bunch of men, he would not have had to endure such suffering. Releasing Legolas, he turned on the men. Some of them stood their ground and gazed back at him, but he could tell that they were scared, like children faced with the wrath of their parents. He didn't care, and he would have lashed out at them there and then if his son had not stepped in front of him.

"Adar," he said, "Blaming someone is not going to make this situation better." Mortal or not, Legolas could still read Thranduil just as well as Thranduil could read him.

"Someone has to pay, _ion-nin_," said the Elvenking. "And I will not rest until I have delivered justice."

"And justice will be delivered," Legolas assured him. "Do you remember the other man I told you about?"

"The priest?" Well, that was close enough, and Legolas was not about to correct his enraged father. That was a mistake which no one could afford to make, not even him.

"Yes, the priest," he said. "He ordered all of this. If you have to blame anyone, then that is the man."

"Where is he?" said the Elvenking, switching back to Westron so that the men could understand him. Thranduil's voice was low, but everyone could hear him clearly, for it was utterly silent inside the room. He seemed calm enough, but it was the calm before the storm. When Thranduil sounded like this, he was at his most dangerous.

"Awaiting judgement," replied Aragorn. No matter what Ambrosius had done, the King of Gondor was not going to abandon the law.

"And is he to be judged by your laws or ours?" asked Thranduil.

"He is in Gondor," began Aragorn slowly, "but he has harmed Eryn Lasgalen also. However, one cannot judge him using the two laws, because a man can only die once."

"I say we judge him by the law of France," piped up Jack. Will fought back the urge to slap his own forehead in exasperation. Couldn't his friend see that this was not the time to interrupt?

"And what is that?" asked Thranduil, staring at the pirate. Jack ignored the Elvenking's expression, or tried to anyway. He sauntered over to Legolas' father, not noticing the frantic looks of warning which Legolas was giving him.

"Well, considerin' he harmed two members of royalty physically, I'd say that's treason, wouldn't you agree, your nibs?" he said, circling the king. "In France, one condemned with committing treason would be hung until half-dead, cut down, be eviscerated and castrated, and while he's still alive, watch his intestines burned before his eyes and then strangled with the remains of his innards. What do you say to that?" The last question was addressed to his wide-eyed audience.

"That is barbaric," said Thranduil, appalled that anyone could do such a thing to...well, any other living thing. In fact, it was probably what orcs would do to their prisoners. As angry as he was, he was not about to stoop to the level of orcs.

"What else do you suggest?" asked Jack. Of course, he had had no intention of carrying out such an execution himself, but it had been quite satisfying to see everyone's reaction. If only he could keep a picture of what they had all looked like at that moment.

"We can just hang him, you know," said Elizabeth.

"Or slit his throat," said Achilles.

"I be supposin' that cuttin' three-thousand and six-hundred pieces of flesh off 'im would be out of the question," mused Barbossa. "That be what the Chinese Emperors do to those who commit treason, and they do not die 'til the last cut."

"Entirely out of the question," Aragorn agreed quickly.

"But a quick death be too good for the likes of him," insisted Barbossa. "I be thinkin' that keepin' him alive might be less pleasant."

"What do you mean?" demanded Thranduil. "Are you suggesting that we spare this man, after all that he's done?"

"Yer Majesty, if I were you, I would not be underestimatin' the me creativity," said the old pirate with a wink. Thranduil's golden eyebrows drew closer together. These men were even more outlandish than he had suspected. Who winked at kings? "Be ye thinkin' that an old man like 'im, so used to the luxury of Rome, would be suited to a life spent driftin' on open water?"

"Hector, Hector, my dear Hector," said Jack, shaking his head as he put an arm around Barbossa's shoulder, causing the other pirate the jerk away. "If you're scared of getting your filthy hands even filthier, then you can simply say so. We're all friends here; we understand."

"Ah, shut up, Sparra," said Barbossa in irritation. "Ye can't deny that it be the perfect idea. If he be destined to live, then there be nuthin' we can do about it, but he will be miserable for a very long time, mark me words."

* * *

Ambrosius thought he had died and was now facing judgement, which really wasn't far from the truth. Standing before him was a furious being with a crown of silver leaves on his golden head. His grey eyes were as cold and hard as the steel of the executioner's axe. The cardinal fell onto his knees, certain that this was one of the archangels. He bowed his head, afraid to even stare at the ethereal being's face.

A hand grabbed him by the collar and hoisted him to his feet so that he was forced to look up. Up close, he could feel the lethal fury emanating from the being. Ambrosius tried to beg for mercy, but all that came out of his mouth was strangled gibberish. His throat was so tight that it was a miracle that he could actually squeeze out any sound at all.

"It was you, was it not?" said the being in a terrible low voice.

* * *

Faramir paced outside the thick wooden door which blocked any sound coming from within the room. Aragorn was standing there, silent and anxious. "Sire, are you certain that it is wise to let King Thranduil stay in there alone with the prisoner?" he asked.

"I did not really have a choice," said Aragorn. "He requested it, and I can hardly deny a father in pain this little comfort." And while he had his misgivings, he could understand how the Elvenking was feeling. If someone hurt Eldarion, then Aragorn was also likely to seek revenge. The constraint which Thranduil had shown so far was already remarkable. What more could they expect from a grieving father? "How is Legolas faring?" he asked.

"Well enough," said Faramir. "The others are with him."

"By others, I hope you do not mean Captains Sparrow and Barbossa," said Aragorn. "Legolas is tired enough already without needing to deal with the two of them."

"On the contrary," said Faramir. "They take his mind off his problems. The last time I saw them, I believe they were entertaining him quite well, at Balian's expense, this time."

* * *

For a moment, Balian was so glad to see Legolas laugh that he forgot that the elf was laughing at him and not with him. Then he scowled in annoyance, which only drew more laughter, and not only from Legolas. "It was a serious proposal," he said darkly. "You might take it a little more seriously than this."

"Balian, Balian, I know it's serious," said Achilles. "But it's amusing all the same." He clapped the Frenchman on the shoulder. "Considering the way you asked, it is no surprise that she fainted."

"How else was I supposed to say it?" demanded Balian. His face was so hot that he felt as if he was back in his forge in France, or facing a balrog. Truth be told, he felt that he would rather face a balrog than be laughed at, especially over something as private as a failed marriage proposal. Well, it seemed like a failed proposal, but despite the fact that Agnes had not agreed, she hadn't disagreed either. Of course, that could be due to the fact that she had first fainted, and now she was taking all pains to avoid him to the point where Arwen had come in person to ask whether he had done something to hurt the girl. Even worse, she had laughed, just like all the others, when he had told her the truth, although her laughter was a prettier sound than most.

"Balian, you are thirty-five, and not seventeen," said Will. "Surely you know how to propose by now? You've been married twice already, after all."

"Firstly, Jocelyn and I were in love, and all it took was for me to ask her in a number of garbled syllables," said Balian. "Secondly, I never proposed to Sibylla."

"And here I thought that poetry was the language of love," said Legolas, rolling his eyes.

"If that was so, then I would never find love," said Balian.

"Yet, out of the lot of us, he's the one with the most wives," said Jack with a grin so wide that he would put a crocodile to shame. "What this one, eh? Lady d'Ibelin number three? Or is it four?"

"Jack!" cried Balian, mortified. "That is absolutely vulgar!"

"What? Even stuffy ole Imad an' his strict sharin'—"

"Shar'ia," Balian corrected automatically.

"—law allows fer four wives per man." At that moment, Anna-Maria took hold of Jack's ear and gave it a vicious twist, causing him to yelp in painful surprise and flail his arms about so violently that everyone else shrank away from him, just in case he accidentally backhanded someone.

"Jack Sparra, if ye ever try that law on me, you know what'll happen," said the female pirate in a tone that was sweeter than honeyed rum.

"I'm just sayin' it!" hollered Jack. "Jesus! You didn't have to take it that seriously!"

As Legolas watched their antics, he came to realize how true Aragorn's words were. Becoming mortal was shocking, yes, but if he could live one mortal lifetime with friends like these, well, then it was worth it.

* * *

As much as he liked to think himself a forgiving man, Balian could not help but feel a swell of satisfaction as Ambrosius was escorted to the docks. God was just. All his arrogant Roman pride had been stripped away. His eyes darted everywhere fearfully. The young man wondered what King Thranduil had done to him to turn him from that cardinal who made almost everyone, including the Pope, feel inferior, into this muttering nervous wreck of a man.

Along the way, common men and women threw rotten vegetables at him. He tried to dodge, but with no avail. Balian did feel a little sorry for the guards who were escorting him, for it was hard for them to avoid the flying produce as well. He guessed that Aragorn was probably going to pay them compensation for this unenviable task.

The old man was shoved onto a boat. On board were a few loaves of hard bread, and some skins of water; probably enough to sustain him for ten days or so. Word had spread, so no one in Middle Earth was likely to shelter him. Ambrosius clutched at the sides of the boat pathetically as it rocked. His eyes were wild with terror.

"Farewell, Your Unholiness!" cried Jack as the boat was shoved away from the docks and down the Anduin. The pirate had a very good vantage point from the _Sea Turtle_'s crow's nest. "You'd better row fast, because if you're not out of our jurisdiction in ten days, then I'm goin' to have a lot of fun blasting you into a few million pieces with me _Pearl'_s cannons, savvy?"

"Amen to that!" said Barbossa, who was standing at the prow of the _Pearl_. "Although, Jack Sparra, the _Pearl_ be my ship!"

"The _Black Pearl_, my dear Captain Barbossa, is _my_ ship. I'm just bein' kind in lendin' it to you, savvy?"

"It be _mine_!"

"No, mine!"

"Mine!"

"No, no, not at all! She's mine!"

"Will you two shut it?" shouted Will from the deck of the _Salty Wench_. "The _Pearl_'s mine because officially, I am the Admiral of this navy, savvy?"

"Dear William, have you been at the absinthe again?" asked Jack in all innocence. "Strong stuff, innit?"

"Absinthe?" demanded Elizabeth, turning to glare at Will. She placed her hands on her hips, looking the same way she did when she was getting ready to reprimand young Willie. "William Turner, what's this about absinthe?"

* * *

Agnes' idea of Hell changed dramatically over the next few days. Hell wasn't a place full of horned demons brandishing tridents. It wasn't a place full of fire and thirst and the shrieking of sinners. It was a room full of pointed whispers and meaningful glances. Rumours were thick on the air, and everywhere she looked, someone was judging her.

Balian had promised to take her away from all of this, so why was she so reluctant to say yes to him? She had nothing to fear from him. Yet she was apprehensive about the future. Would having him as a husband be different from having him just as a guardian? He had promised to be her protector, but men were good at wearing masks. Maybe Balian hadn't taken off his yet. But she'd seen him at his most vulnerable, hadn't she.

The girl shook her head to try and clear her thoughts. It did not work. She was so confused. The continuous murmurs of the other girls in the room only served to complicate her feelings. She needed air. Setting down her embroidery, she all but fled from the room and into the gardens. In her haste, she almost collided with a tall willowy woman with fair hair and pale skin the colour of new cream. The woman carried herself with pride, as if she was a pagan goddess of old.

"I am so sorry," she stammered, believing that this was yet another stately Gondorian lady. She had not had many good experiences with them. They treated her as if she was some strange creature to be gawked at.

"No harm was done," said the woman kindly. Her eyes were clear blue and she reminded Agnes of early spring, when there was the scent of blossoms on the air and snow on the ground. "You are not Gondorian, am I correct?"

"You are, milady," replied Agnes, dipping a curtsey— a Gondorian one. She had learnt at least that much. A little courtesy never did any harm.

"Then let me guess," said the woman with a smile. "You must be the French lady who came with Lord Balian."

"That is me," said Agnes. Was she going to get interrogated about her relation with him now? "I am Agnes of Cormier, milady."

"You are much younger than I'd imagined," mused the other woman, "and so softly spoken. Forgive me, Agnes. I am being rude. I am Éowyn of Rohan."

"You are Lord Faramir's wife?" said Agnes in surprise. No wonder she did not have dark hair like the rest of the Gondorian ladies. For a while, she could only stare, for she was looking at the woman who had cut down one of the most dangerous things in Middle Earth; something which no man could have killed. However, Agnes recovered herself before she could appear rude. "Lady Éowyn, I have heard much about you," she said, curtseying again. "Balian and the others spoke quite a bit about you, and I am honoured to meet you at last." She felt proud of herself for making that speech. See? She could be courtly if she made the effort. She just didn't like doing it.

"My, you do speak very well for one so young," said Éowyn with a laugh. "You are so different from Balian, who still does not know how to speak well, not even after years at court. Then again, I suppose that is one of his charms."

Agnes blushed. She did not want to be reminded of that most embarrassing incident. It seemed that the whole of Minas Tirith knew about it now. And in time, she was sure that it would spread to Osgiliath, then beyond the borders of Gondor and into other countries. When she died, would this tale of the innocent maiden who fainted at a marriage proposal linger on throughout the ages?

Éowyn laughed again. "I do not know who is more embarrassed; you or Balian. My husband is...how would I put this...giving him 'hell' about it, as Jack Sparrow would say."

"He must be so angry," said Agnes, so horrified that she forgot to say 'milady' again. "Balian, that is, not Lord Faramir."

"He is irritated, but not at you," said Éowyn. "Our beloved Captain Sparrow has started telling his infamous eunuch jokes again, only this time, the subject is not William Turner."

"Eunuch jokes?" asked Agnes. She had not heard of those.

"Oh, never mind," said Éowyn hurriedly. "They are nothing that a civilized young woman like yourself should know about, although I daresay you will find out soon enough. I do pity Balian. He is a dignified man, and should not be subjected to those jokes."

"I take it they're not very entertaining then," said Agnes with some apprehension.

"My dear girl," said the Shieldmaiden, shaking her head, "the only person who finds them entertaining is Jack." She sighed. "So, tell me, Agnes, do you really fear marrying Balian that much?"

"Oh no," said Agnes, perhaps a little too quickly. "He is a good man, and I am very fond of him. It's just that the idea of marrying someone scares me. The idea of not marrying anyone also scares me." She looked down at her feet. "You must think that I am pathetic, Lady Éowyn. "You rode out to battle alongside your brother, disguised as a man, and here I am, being afraid of everything."

"I was afraid too," said Éowyn, putting a hand on Agnes' shoulder, making the girl look up again. "There were so many things that I was afraid of. I feared being trapped by who I was. I feared for my people and those whom I held dear. I feared dying without renown..." She trailed off as she returned to those memories. Those were frightening times. "But we cannot let our fears control us. Sooner or later, we will have to face them."

"I know, and that is making me even more nervous," said Agnes. "I am so confused about my feelings."

"Then perhaps you should talk to Balian," said Éowyn. She grinned. "He didn't really get a chance to tell you all his plans the first time, and he was truly mortified by the experience. I think he deserves another chance."

"Very well then, milady," said Agnes. "I shall try not to faint before he finishes his proposal." She even managed to smile. The conversation with Éowyn had put everything into perspective for her. How bad could it be, after all? She would much rather listen to Balian than to the whispers of the other ladies-in-waiting.

* * *

**A/N: **I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and sorry to those who were looking forward to seeing Elladan. I'll try to fit him in, but I totally forgot about him, between Thranduil's arrival and Agnes' problems. Speaking of which, I hope I got Thranduil right.


	28. Drinks All Around!

**Chance Encounter: Legacy of the Third Age**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything that you recognize. I'm just borrowing them without permission but with every intention of returning them, savvy?

**Chapter 27: Drinks All Around!**

All things, good or bad, had to come to an end. Thranduil could not tarry long in Minas Tirith, for he had matters to deal with back in Eryn Lasgalen. His subjects had already been mortified that their king would actually make such an impulsive journey, and he could not afford to remain in Gondor.

It was dawn when the Elvenking and his company set off, and almost the entire city had gathered to bid the elves farewell. It was not often that great elf kings visited their city, after all, and it was highly unlikely that this would ever happen again. No one wanted to miss this spectacular sight. All had heard of how the elves were sailing west, back to their homeland. Soon, there wouldn't even be any elves left in Middle Earth.

Legolas embraced his father. If anything, his condition had brought father and son even closer, and that was one thing to be thankful for. "You must return to Eryn Lasgalen soon, _ion-nin_," said Thranduil after he had mounted his horse. "Your mother and your brothers are eager to see you."

"Tell them that I miss them," said Legolas, very glad that he was not going to be the one who would have to tell his mother about his ailment. It was not hard to imagine how distressed she would be when she heard about it.

A few more formalities were exchanged, as was the way with diplomats. The company of elves rode away back towards the west, with their silver and green banners flying in the wind. Legolas stood there at the gates of Minas Tirith and watched them until they became nothing more than specks in the distance. Once again, he was made aware of just how much his vision had diminished, and he could not help but heave a sigh of regret. He missed feeling like one of the Eldar.

* * *

The sound of the hammer hitting hot metal was soothing to Balian's ears. This was what he knew, and he loved his craft. The sun blazed down on him as he worked in the yard of the smithy. He had yet to receive a commission because for one reason or another, none of the healers said that he should do anything that required a lot of energy. It wasn't that he needed the money —Aragorn was very generous with his— but Balian was not one who lived off the labours of others comfortably, and he needed something to occupy his time.

No amount of persuasion had managed to convince Aragorn that he was indeed fine and ready for a commission, no matter how low-ranking. So, with the help of Gimli, who understood his frustration, he had managed to compromise with Aragorn. He was allowed to work with the weapon smith in the barracks if he only did things which were not strenuous. Therefore, he ended up here, making horseshoes.

He would have loved to show Barisian how weapons were made, but his son seemed to have no interest in learning how to sculpt metal, and had run off to play 'pirates' with the other boys. It was their favourite game, despite their parents' hopes that that they would become disinterested in pretending to be rogues and scallywags, and turn to a new game which Elizabeth called 'students'.

'Perhaps we're being too hopeful,' he thought. 'No normal boy likes to sit still and read books on serious subjects for an extended amount of time.'

He licked his parched lips. After the cold of a harsh European winter, he was not used to the heat of the Gondorian sun. He went over to one of the buckets of water, stripped off his shirt, and splashed himself with the liquid.

* * *

After searching almost everywhere, Agnes had found out that Balian was down at the barracks. She wondered what he was doing there, for she, like everyone else, felt that he had not fully recovered. She picked her way pass the maze of tents, nodding nervously at the soldiers who greeted her and sometimes giving them wan smiles. She feared them, despite multiple assurances from everyone that Gondorian soldiers were honourable and well-disciplined men.

The steady sound of metal hitting metal drew closer. The smell of horses and hot iron wafted on the air. She rounded the corner, and found herself staring at the smithy. There were many horses, waiting to be shod, and also...

Her eyes widened. There, standing in the smithy's yard, was Balian. He stood in the shade of a tree with hardly any leaves, drinking water from a ladle and speaking to the horses in a low murmur. He was wearing dark breeches, his old boots and...nothing else.

She did vaguely remember seeing him naked in the dark dungeons of Rome, but she had been much too preoccupied with their impending executions to take much notice of it. Right now, she felt as if she was seeing him in this state of undress for the very first time. The fact that his skin was gleaming with sweat did not help. She wanted to look away, for it was so improper to stare at a man's body, but she could not avert her gaze. She just stood there, staring, even as her breathing grew quicker.

Suddenly, Balian looked up. He'd seen her. The man dropped the ladle back into the bucket of water and gave her a smile. "Agnes?" he said, turning to face her. She could now see all his scars clearly. Some of them were like pale tracks running across his skin; others were still pink and puckered. The sun only made the contours of his muscles more obvious. "This is a surprise. What are you—" He was cut off abruptly as she fell to the ground in another faint. This time, he was not quick enough to catch her.

Quickly, he ran over to her, trying not to panic. What had he done wrongly this time? He picked up the girl and carried over her to the shade before splashing water on her face to revive her.

Agnes spluttered and opened her eyes. She felt as if she was ill, for it seemed as if there were a thousand doves flying around inside her. She stared up at Balian's concerned face, unable to speak for a moment. Then she realized that she was in his arms, and she hastily tried to sit up on her own, which only made the dizziness and nausea worse. "Good Lord, Agnes," he said. "Do I really frighten you that much? Each time I see you, you faint. I'm beginning to think I'm not good for your health."

"No, no," she protested weakly even as she scrambled out of his arms. It was so improper for an unmarried maiden to be held by a man, and by a half-dressed man too. She looked away from him, her face growing red with embarrassment. "Milord, you..."

"What?" asked Balian in confusion.

"Where'd your shirt go?" she blurted out. It was Balian's turn to blush. How could he have forgotten about that? Innocent maidens were not supposed to see their would-be betrotheds like that. He retrieved the item of clothing and was trying to put it on, but in his embarrassment, his fingers suddenly became clumsy and he could not button up his own shirt. Each moment of delay only made him more embarrassed and frustrated. Finally, he gave up, after having torn off one of the wooden buttons. Instead, he turned around so that his back was to her.

"Did you want to talk to me about something?" he asked, trying to keep from stammering. Christ, what a happy couple they made. They had their backs to each other. Why couldn't he be eloquent and graceful like Legolas, or Paris, or even Jack?

"I...err...no...I mean...yes..." said Agnes. Why did she have to come down here? This was so embarrassing. It was even worse than fainting at the proposal. The only fortunate thing was that the smith was not a man who delighted in gossip, and was judiciously ignoring them. There was hardly anyone else there, with the exception of the horses, and they were all calmly chewing their hay or dozing. The affairs of foolish little men did not affect them. "About your proposal..."

"What about it?" said Balian. It came out a little more sharply than he had meant for it to be. He was so nervous.

"I...I...it doesn't matter," said Agnes. She had no idea that it was possible for her face to feel so hot and not catch on fire. "It can wait."

It occurred to Balian that it probably did matter. Why else would the shy quiet Agnes come down to the barracks? She must have wanted to talk to him urgently, and he had embarrassed her, just as he'd embarrassed himself. 'Come on,' he scolded himself. 'What sort of role model can you be for your son if you cannot even talk to a girl without stammering?' He turned around, not caring that the buttons of his shirt were still undone. "Agnes!" he called. "Wait."

Much to his satisfaction, she did not flee from him the way the startled doe fled from her hunter. She just stared at him as if he had grown horns on his head.

As for Agnes, she wondered what he wanted to say to her. She'd probably offended him, and she had expected him to be angry at her. Men's pride was such a fragile thing. The girl watched him run towards her. He was a wondrously handsome man, despite all the scars, and for someone who was not fully recovered, he moved very gracefully. The knights in those romantic tales probably could not be much better, at least physically. They were, however, much more poetic and eloquent than Balian could ever be. Agnes liked poetry.

He stood there in front of her and stared intently at her face. "I know you have something to say to me," he said. "Otherwise, you wouldn't have come here, am I right?"

She nodded and opened her mouth to speak, although no sound came out. She looked around at this place. Who knew who could be listening? For all she knew, the entire army could be listening to their conversation by now. "Perhaps it would be more appropriate to speak later," she said.

"I think you mean that it would be more appropriate to speak somewhere private," he said. He held out his arm to her. "Shall we, milady?"

* * *

The gardens surrounding the pavilion which Agnes now found herself in was seemingly empty. She could hear nothing except the faint twittering of birds and the soft wind blowing through the greenery. In fact, it was much too quiet, considering she was not alone. She kept on looking at Balian expectantly, waiting for him to speak. All the while, he seemed to be waiting for her to speak.

"Well?" they both said at exactly the same time.

"Ladies first," said Balian. Not that it was his manner to do something like this, of course; he'd learned this strange custom from Will, and Jack, to some extent. The pirate liked to use it when something unpleasant was looming. Now seemed to be a good time to try it. After all, Agnes was the one who had sought him out.

"I..." she began, looking uncertain. In fact, she was staring so hard at his face that it seemed as if she was trying not to look at anything else. "I've considered your proposal." He waited, torn between wanting to know the result and wishing that he'd never even made the suggestion in the first place. This was turning out to be extremely awkward. Agnes took a deep breath, and finally looked away from him. "I've decided to accept it."

"That is..." said Balian. "That is good..." What else could he say? "God, I sound ridiculous," he muttered as he turned his face towards the sky. And then, for the first time in his memory, he heard Agnes laugh.

"I think that makes two of us," she said. She smiled, and then that was quickly replaced by an expression of mortification, for she realized that they were not alone.

"A wedding!" cried Jack as he ran up to the pavilion. "I love weddings! Drinks all around!"

* * *

The news of Agnes and Balian's engagement spread, and along with it, great anticipation and excitement. Barisian, of course, was rather disgusted as he had expected that his father would be beyond the ridiculous trivialities of marriage. As a young boy, he thought the opposite gender was an alien race. Of course, that definition did not apply to aunts who spoiled him and also taught him how to use swords and pistols.

Andromache and Elizabeth, on the other hand, were very excited about planning the wedding, despite the fact that neither Balian nor Agnes wanted anything extravagant. Andromache could remember her own wedding to Hector; all of Troy had attended it, it had seemed. She could still hear the cheers of the people as they threw flower petals on their prince and his bride. Of course, she'd been terrified of Hector at that time, and she'd resented him for taking her away from her home but when she thought of the wedding now, all negativity had been washed away, and she could only sigh with nostalgia. It had all passed by much too quickly.

As for Elizabeth, she was determined to make up for the extravagant wedding which she had missed out on. Getting married in the middle of a battle made for a novel and exciting wedding, but she liked pomp and ceremony and she was determined to make this the celebration of a lifetime.

And so, Agnes found herself cornered by these two in her own chambers, while Helen watched on from her seat on one of the low couches, contentedly rocking the lovely little Hermione. Paris and the others were probably busy tormenting Balian about the same thing; wedding clothes.

"What about this?" said Elizabeth, holding up a length of slippery cream-coloured satin. "It would look lovely with lace, don't you think?"

"Much too pale," insisted Andromache. "It would make her disappear." She picked up some sheer red silk and a golden fabric with a strange smooth weave. "This would be lovely."

"For someone with darker skin, maybe," said Agnes, eying the materials suspiciously. It would be perfect for someone with Andromache or Anna-Maria's colouring, but for her, it was much too eye-catching. "It's too loud for me."

"Nonsense," said Andromache. "I've seen Helen wearing these colours and she looked good in them. She is certainly as pale as you."

"Lady Helen looks good in anything!" protested Agnes. That was completely true. She could be wearing sack cloth and ashes, and she would still be as lovely as Venus.

"You are a very pretty girl yourself," Helen reassured her gently, "if only you would believe it."

"What colour do you want then?" asked Elizabeth. She gestured at the array of fabrics which were strewn everywhere. The room looked like a rainbow had exploded there. There was fabric draped over every piece of furniture unless someone was sitting there.

Agnes fingered a piece of royal blue satin. Now this was what she was after. It was practical, for she would be able to wear it after the wedding as well, and she liked blue. "I'd like this," she said.

"It is rather nice," admitted Elizabeth, "but it looks so sombre."

"With some pearls it wouldn't look so plain," said Andromache thoughtfully. "However, a bride should be bright and vibrant. Even if you do want such a cold colour, it would be better if you went with a lighter shade. It would bring out the blue of your eyes."

"My eyes are grey," said Agnes.

"Bluish grey," amended Andromache.

"Or a greyish blue; either or," said Elizabeth. "Andromache's right. A light blue would look lovely on you. With some seed pearls, and perhaps some gold to go with your hair, it would look perfect."

"Far from perfect," said Agnes. She'd never had much of an eye for clothes, and she was not sure of what sort of look the two ladies were envisioning. They were now discussing shapes and decorations. Both of them seemed to be in favour of a long train which would probably make her trip, although there was some debate about whether the dress should have a wide skirt with hoops or just one which fell naturally in folds.

"And lace," added Elizabeth. "You can't have a wedding dress without lace."

"I have never understood the attractiveness of ruffles made from sheer scratchy fabric with patterns of flowers on them," said Andromache, wrinkling her nose. "It detracts from her slim maidenly figure."

"Nonsense," said Elizabeth. "Lace is lovely and feminine."

Agnes wished she could just have a plain blue dress without any of those troublesome and uncomfortable embellishments. This was going to be a long and painful process, and they'd only just started.

* * *

"What is wrong with a clean white linen shirt and breeches without patches?" demanded Balian as his friends insisted that he choose some fabrics for his wedding costume.

"Do you own any?" asked Paris, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, no, but I can find some," said Balian.

"Balian," said Éowyn pleadingly. "You only ever get married once in your life, and the wedding has to be special." She was having much too much fun dressing him up, for he was a handsome man, and he could easily look like a prince or king if only he'd do something about the way he presented himself. Faramir had wisely stayed away, or else he would have been part of her experimenting as well. For some reason, most of the men she knew liked to dress like scruffy rangers who'd just spent a few months in the wild.

"Actually," said Jack as he busied himself with tying many colourful sashes around his waist, "this is the third time our friend's been married." He inspected his reflection in the mirror pretended to pose for a portrait before discarding the current sash and putting on another one, hastily made from one of the sample lengths of fabric. His favourite so far was the multi-coloured woollen weave from Khand. It screamed for attention.

"But this is his first formal wedding where he can afford to dress nicely," said Briseis. She smiled sweetly at Balian as she held up a rich wine-red velvet to his face to see how well it went with his colouring. He sighed and rolled his eyes.

"He needs a turban," called Imad from the other side of the room. "Preferably with a lovely large feather and a jewelled brooch on the front."

"You mean, like this?" said Achilles. He grinned as he held up the longest peacock feather that he could find. This was much better than tormenting Paris. For one, Paris did not seem to have such a large spectrum of colours for his face.

"No no," said Jack, running over and waving his hands around madly. "It's not fluffy enough! I say we have a fan of shorter feathers _and_ one very long feather, eh?"

"He needs robes," remarked Legolas, lazily examining something so ostentatious that even Jack would refuse to wear it. Perhaps this was Andromache's idea of a jest; she had been the one who had ordered the fabrics. "And silver embroidery. No wedding is complete without some silver embroidery." Actually, he knew nothing about weddings, especially the types which men preferred, but he did know how to tease Balian. It was all working beautifully. "What about this?" He held up the garishly bright material for all to see. "We need a dash of colour."

"I think it will match his face colour well," said Achilles, trying his very best to keep a straight face and not succeeding.

"I've had enough of this!" declared Balian. "I will not be needing a wedding costume, thank you very much, and none of you are any help at all."

"Oh, put that down," said Éowyn. "No one is going to wear that." She glared at both Legolas and Achilles. The former was unaffected, despite the fact that he no longer had the superior senses of his kind, and the latter just grinned more widely, causing his wife to slap him on the arm.

"If you are not going to help, Achilles, then you had better get out," said Briseis. "We mean to do business here."

At last, they managed to persuade Balian to get robes of royal blue with silver edging and a silver girdle. He'd tried to complain, but he had to admit that compared with all the other choices, this wasn't too bad. Now he just had to get the clothes made. However, this living hell had just begun, for there were more tortures coming his way.

He had thought that getting clothes made would be simple. After all, back in France, all he had to do was take measurements, and the tailor would produce the desired garments. Of course, those had been much simpler items. Of all the things that could have happened to him, he found himself standing in the middle of the room, draped in much too much fabric, and being stuck full of pins. Who knew that seamstresses could be such good torturers?

* * *

The day came. Dawn found Agnes standing on the balcony of the room which she and Heloise shared. She had not been able to sleep, for every time she closed her eyes, she dreamed of wedding bells and marriage oaths. It had not been pleasant. Cool breezes brushed her face and played with her hair. She wrapped her arms around herself as she watched the sunrise. What would marriage be like? Her mother had died much too early on to tell her anything about it, and what she did know, she'd heard from the maids' gossips and her father's lectures. Those weren't the most reliable of sources.

And Balian, being who he was, would probably have completely different expectations from her father. And how would she cope with being a mother to a six year old boy? It was all so alien and terrifying. What if she got children of her own? She shuddered at that. Simply the thought of her wedding night sent shivers up her spine.

"Milady?" Agnes turned around to find Heloise standing beside her. The maidservant draped a cloak of soft wool over her shoulders. "It's cold in the morning, and you shouldn't get sick on your wedding day."

"Oh Heloise," said Agnes. She bit her lip to keep herself from crying. She threw her arms around her maid. "Thank you." Her voice broke in the middle of it, and tears fell. She was so grateful that Heloise was still here.

Heloise was a bit surprised at this display of affection from her mistress, but she took it into stride. She rubbed Agnes' back comfortingly. "You don't have to do that, milady," she said. "I will always look after you. Now, stop crying, or you'll have puffy red eyes all through the wedding, and we can't have that, can we? A bride ought to look her best." She found a handkerchief and handed it to Agnes, who wiped her eyes and sniffed.

"I'm scared," she admitted.

"Why are you scared?" asked Heloise. "Lord Balian is a right gentleman. You spent days in a dungeon with him, and you were fine with it."

"I was not! There just wasn't any other choice!"

"Yes, there was that, but you know him, and he would never hurt you."

"What if he finds out that I'm not a good wife?"

"Milady, the only things that will trouble him are your tears and your fainting episodes, and even then, he'll think it's his fault."

Agnes looked at her maid suspiciously. "How would you know?" she asked. Heloise smirked.

"He confided in the other lords, they told Fulk, and Fulk told me," she said. "There are no secrets around here."

"That just makes it worse," said Agnes, feeling rather embarrassed on Balian's behalf. She must never let him know that she knew about this. "Heloise, you must not tell anyone about this morning, or I'll...I'll..."

"You'll what?" asked Heloise.

"I'll tell Fulk that you want to have his children," said Agnes triumphantly. Two could play this game.

* * *

"I'm conducting the wedding!" cried Jack, shaking his fist at Barbossa. "You've already done Lizzie and the Whelp's wedding! It's my turn!"

"No, I be conducting the wedding!" said Barbossa, spraying Jack's face with apple juice. "I be the one with experience!"

"Pshaw!" said Jack, flinging his hands into the air. "You call that a wedding? There were explosions in the background, and a maelstrom! That's hardly one fit for a lord!"

They were in Balian's quarters, preparing for the impending ceremony. Balian was already in his wedding robes. He felt uncomfortable, and that had nothing to do with the high tight collar which was strangling him. Well, it might. "I don't want Jack to conduct my wedding," he insisted, although the voices of the two quarrelling pirate captains mainly drowned out his request. Faramir patted his arm in sympathy. Who knew how this 'wedding' was going to end up like? For all he knew, it could be the biggest disaster in Gondorian history, and it would be up to him, the Steward, to clean it up. Or, they might be able to veto both Jack and Barbossa and get the King to conduct the wedding.

Somehow, Barbossa managed to hear Balian. They were all beginning to suspect that the old pirate had selective hearing. "Ye hear that, Sparra?" he said, grinning smugly.

"And I don't want Barbossa to conduct it either," said Balian. The two of them glared at him, and he glared back. "This is my wedding."

"We be the only Christian ministers," said Barbossa.

"Hardly," said Paris. "Fulk is Christian."

"Yes," said Fulk hastily, backing away. "But I am not a priest. I was a monk, and monks do not conduct weddings." What was he doing here anyway? He didn't belong with the unruly 'lords' of Gondor. His contingent was busy patrolling the borders, and he should have been with them, if the king had not especially written him an exemption letter. Were weddings in Gondor always like this?

"See? See?" said Jack. "He's a monk, savvy?" The pirate put a hand on Balian's shoulder. "Mate, I'm afraid you're stuck with me."

"Ye do not have to be stuck with Sparra," said Barbossa. He took another bite out of his green apple. Jack the Monkey chirped in agreement.

"He's right," said Achilles. "You don't have to be stuck with Jack Sparrow. You can be stuck with both Jack Sparrow _and_ Hector Barbossa. It'll save you from having to listen to them argue."

So, against Balian's wishes, it was decided. Not even the bridegroom, it seemed, could veto the two pirate captains when they agreed on something. Well, it was as close to agreeing as Jack and Barbossa would ever get.

* * *

When a knock sounded on Agnes' door, signalling that the groom had arrived, she did not know what to expect. During this period of planning, she had not seen much of Balian, as he was always occupied with one thing or another.

"Make them wait!" said Andromache through a mouthful of hairpins. She'd curled Agnes' hair into coils on the top of her head, and was busy securing the elaborate hairstyle. Briseis was in charge of putting jewelled combs into Agnes' hair, and she went about it with great fervour. Agnes' head felt so heavy that she was afraid it might just fall from her shoulders from the weight.

"Oi!" they heard Jack call out. "Open the door, luv! Your knight in shinin' armour is here!"

"Ye can shut up, Jack Sparra!" Anna-Maria shouted back. "Ye ain't comin' in 'til the bride's ready!"

They heard some loud laughter and outraged spluttering. The pounding on the door continued. At least they were refraining from making lewd jokes at the moment, although all the women had a feeling that if Jack tried to do such a thing, he would soon be the subject of his notorious eunuch jokes. Who knew what a furious Balian could be capable of?

"I am not ready," Agnes kept on saying. "I am truly not ready for this!"

"Oh, quiet, milady," said Heloise, holding up a mirror so that Agnes could see how she looked. "You look lovely. Lord Balian is going to be delighted." Despite her desire for a plain and practical wedding dress, she had ended up in an elaborate work which consisted of ice blue silk, strings and strings of pearls, and golden embroidery on the hem and sleeves. Elizabeth managed to get what she wanted, and there were lace cuffs and a lace collar — all blue and subtle, of course. Her veil was made of sheer silk and it was secured to her hair by two combs, both elaborately wrought and dripping with pearls and sapphires. She wondered who had paid for all of this and winced as she thought of how many families she could feed if she sold all the jewels on her dress alone.

"I feel so heavy that I can hardly walk," she said.

"Nonsense," said Elizabeth. "A baby is heavier than that dress, and you'll need to carry one sooner or later. And you can stop blushing. That face of yours would be enough to light up your chamber tonight, and you probably don't want that."

"Elizabeth, you're not making her feel any better," said Briseis. She put her hand on Agnes' shoulder and gave it a squeeze. "It'll be fine. Balian is a good man."

The door finally burst open, unable to sustain the battering any longer. There were some expert siege engineers in the groom's retinue, after all. The men poured into the room. Someone shoved Balian forward. "Say something!" they heard Will hiss.

"Good morning," said Balian. All the women stared at him incredulously. That was no way to greet one's bride.

"We'll work on that later," murmured Paris.

Balian took a deep breath, and then offered Agnes his hand. The girl shyly put her hand into his. His coarse fingers closed around her thin bony ones and gave them a squeeze. She smiled at him gratefully. At least someone knew how she was feeling at the moment. "You look lovely," he said quietly, causing her to blush. That was the first time a man had paid her such a compliment.

There were more people waiting in the courtyard, and they bowed when the bride and groom emerged. Standing with them was a grey stallion with a bridle of some sort of strange silvery material. "Hithlain," Balian whispered when Agnes gave him a questioning look. "The elves made it." With very little effort, he lifted her up and placed her in the saddle before swinging up behind her.

The couple rode through the streets of Minas Tirith, with their retinue following closely behind them. Strangely enough, Aragorn, Legolas, Elladan and Gimli were nowhere to be seen, even though they had promised to attend the wedding. Even Merry, Pippin and Sam had come. Sam even brought Rosie, and little Elanor, who was still too young to appreciate this special event. The tiny hobbit child drew just as much attention as the bride and bridegroom.

The crowds cheered as the company of noblemen passed them, and they threw flowers at the couple, making the two of them blush. Children ran after the merry company, waving and shouting. At the back, Achilles and Will were in charge of scattering wrapped sweets on the ground. It was only right that the entire city should share the joy. The children pounced on these; it was not often that they got sweet treats.

The wedding was to be held on the most magnificent in the Gondorian Navy, and that was, without doubt, the _Black Pearl_. Almost everyone —with the exception of the bride and groom— had insisted on it. "If it wasn't for a ship," Jack had argued, "none of this would have ever happened, and you wouldn't be getting married. It's _symbolic_, savvy?"

To Balian's surprise, Aragorn, Gimli, Legolas and Elladan were waiting at the docks. Elladan was carrying something long and wrapped in cloth. Legolas winked at him, but refused to say anything. It seemed that the elven prince was almost back to his usual self.

Agnes clung to Balian as he carried her up the gangplank. Sometimes, they teetered precariously, and she wondered what would happen if they did fall. It would not be very proper for someone to have to fish out the bride and groom on their wedding day. "I knew this was a bad idea," Balian muttered as he finally reached the ship. Gently, he set her down on the deck.

Barbossa and Jack quickly took their place at the helm, still glaring at each other. The other wedding guests filed onto the ship to join them. Even Pintel and Ragetti were there, although Balian was pretty certain that he had not invited them.

"Dearly beloved," began Barbossa. "We—"

"—are gathered here today," continued Jack, "to celebrate this blessed and sacred union between—"

"—Lord Balian of Ibelin and his bride, Lady Agnes, and to witness their oaths of fidelity—"

Barbossa never got to finish his line, for at that moment, Jack pulled out his pistol and fired at Jack the monkey, causing the unfortunate undead creature to shriek at the top of its voice.

"And so it begins," murmured Achilles as chaos broke out onboard the _Black Pearl_. "We're back to normal."

* * *

**A/N: **I hope you enjoyed the chapter.


	29. Long Live Chaos!

**Chance Encounter: Legacy of the Third Age**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything that you recognize. I' just borrowing them without permission but with every intention of returning them, savvy?

**Warning:** I advise you not to eat or drink anything while reading this chapter. The reason will become apparent.

**Chapter 28: Long Live Chaos!**

Éowyn had never seen more chaos in her life, and that was saying a lot; she had been in the Battle of the Pelennor Fields. Each person seemed to be striving to drown out the others. Jack the Monkey was shrieking at the top of his voice and Jack the pirate was shouting and cursing colourfully. Balian was spewing out things which sounded like badly pronounced dwarvish curses. Only Agnes was silent, not that she could have said anything if she had wanted to. The poor girl was probably in shock. This was her wedding, and it was all going —what was that phrase? Ah yes; going to pot.

"That's enough!" roared Gimli. When it came to shouting matches, no one could beat the dwarf. The others stopped for a moment to look at him, and then resumed their quarrelling. Well, Jack and Barbossa resumed their quarrelling. The others were trying to stop them.

Achilles rolled his eyes. No sort of diplomacy was going to work. He nodded at Elladan, and then jerked his head in the direction of the two pirates, who were quickly coming to blows. After some more nodding, gesturing and blinking, the elven lord finally understood what the Greek wanted to do. The two of them strode up to the helm. Achilles grabbed Jack by the back of his coat, and, ignoring his protests, bodily threw him into the water. Elladan had done the same with Barbossa with strength that belied his slender figure.

"Good one," said Faramir, looking rather impressed. He had been wondering about how to solve this problem.

"Now that everything's settled, we can resume," said Achilles. He bowed to Aragorn. "My liege." That was the hint, and Aragorn took it into stride. The king of Gondor and Arnor strode to the helm and began the wedding ceremony again.

Apart from some outraged spluttering and name calling from the water below, everything progressed smoothly until Aragorn accidentally said, "You may kiss the bride." He'd learned that 'Christians' had this in their weddings. Of course, the supplier of this information had been Elizabeth, and Elizabeth and Balian had come from very different times and places.

Balian blanched, and Agnes looked absolutely horrified. "Very passionate," Elladan remarked drily to Legolas, who just sniggered. However, to their disappointment, Agnes did not faint and Balian did not start spluttering incoherently. Instead, the man took the girl's hand in his own and kissed it very chastely.

"Well, that's one way to get around it," muttered Will, looking as if he would like to show Balian how it was actually done, with Elizabeth as his partner for the demonstration.

"It's a start," said Elizabeth, patting his arm. "You don't want them to get too nervous to eat. Queen Arwen has organized a wonderful banquet."

It seemed that all men, no matter how old they were, lived for eating, for at the mention of the word 'banquet', they all stopped congratulating the new couple and looked at her. She raised an eyebrow at that.

"Hey, why has it gone quiet up there?" came Jack's voice from below.

* * *

Wine, ale and rum flowed freely during the wedding feast. Arwen had outdone herself this time. Well, Arwen and the cooks. The main feasting hall had been decorated with golden ribbons along the edges of the ceiling. Jack, despite having spent a while in the river, was the first to arrive. Of course, the entire Gondorian court had been waiting there already.

Apart from conducting the wedding —which he had failed to do—, Jack had other plans up his sleeve. This wedding had to be special, and when Captain Jack Sparrow had had a hand in organizing it, how could it not be? He nodded at the musicians in the corner.

As soon as the new couple and their retinue walked in through the door, the musicians struck up a lively and familiar tune. Jack grinned as Will slapped his forehead and the blood drained from Balian's face. Ragetti and Pintel, having recognized the tune, beamed before joining in the singing.

_Yo ho! Yo ho! A pirate's life for me.  
We pillage plunder, we rifle and loot.  
Drink up me hearties, yo ho!  
We kidnap and ravage and don't give a hoot.  
Drink up me hearties, yo ho!_

_Yo ho! Yo ho! A pirate's life for me! _

"How did he manage that?" whispered Legolas. "How in Middle Earth did Jack manage to ruin a wedding single-handedly?"

"You were right about one thing," said Elladan. "This is a very spectacular wedding. I've never seen anything like it." He still held the long wrapped bundle, and now, he handed it over to Aragorn, as planned. There was to be at least some formality in this wedding, despite Jack Sparrow's determination to do away with all pomp and ceremony.

The song seemed to go on and on, and as the pirates made merry, the entire room grew increasingly silent, until all one could hear were the music and the off-key singing. The final note finally died away, and they were all left in shock. Finally, Aragorn cleared his throat, breaking the tense silence. He smiled benevolently, although when his gaze fell on Jack, his eyes grew hard, and Jack knew that he was going to have to endure some rather awful lectures afterwards; that is, if he was sober enough to listen to them.

The king raised his cup — a finely worked glass imported from Harad. "To Balian and Agnes," he said. "May their union be a long and happy one!" The cheers were thunderous.

Agnes glanced at Balian—her new husband. He seemed to have regained his normal colour, although the skin around his lips was still a bit pale. Still, he drank deeply from his own cup. She followed suit. The elven wine warmed her from the inside out, giving her more courage. She quickly downed the rest of it; she was going to need courage.

They had all seen Elladan hand something over to Aragorn. The king had not finished speaking yet. "Balian, I know you lost your sword to your cousin," he said. With that, he unwrapped the long and mysterious bundle, and all of a sudden, Balian wondered why he had thought it had been mysterious in the first place. The shape had made it obvious enough, hadn't it? Aragorn held the beautiful weapon with two hands. "Behold!"

"Ooh! It's Excalibur!" exclaimed Jack. "And Ole 'Arry is King Arthur!"

"He be the Lady of the Lake, I assume," drawled Barbossa. He held a large glass of mead in his hand and his face was unusually red. "The king be giving the sword to Balian, and as the Lady be the one who gives the sword to Arthur, I say that Balian be Arthur, and His Majesty be the Lady."

"I don't recall the Lady of the Lake being so bearded," scoffed Jack as he crossed his arms. Did he mention that he really _really _despised Barbossa?

* * *

Agnes clung onto Balian's arm and smiled at everyone who approached her. She let Balian do the talking. The servants kept her cup filled, and she always drank her wine. It would not do to offend their hosts by rejecting the offered drinks.

Her world started to reel, and she began to feel very warm. She felt as if she was floating above everyone else; it was actually quite pleasant. Someone was keeping a very tight grip on her arm. "Leggo," she slurred. "I wanna fly..."

"Agnes," said that voice. A man's voice; she was pretty sure she'd heard it before, but she couldn't place it. Did it even matter? Everyone here was so wonderful. "I think you've had enough to drink."

" 'shgood," she said, wondering why she didn't sound so clear.

"No, it's not good," said the voice. A strong hand relieved her of her cup. She tried to protest, but it was so hard to control her tongue. Her legs weren't working either. She slumped against something warm and hard. Strong arms wrapped around her.

"Balian," she mumbled, finally remembering who this man was. Wait, didn't she marry him? Oh well. It didn't really matter, did it? Or did it? She shook her head. Why were her thoughts going everywhere? She clung to Balian to stop herself from floating off.

"Right," she heard him say. His voice was deep and rumbling, and she liked the sound of it. "Heloise, can you please take Lady Agnes up to the bedroom?"

"Certainly, milord," Agnes heard someone else say. She protested as Balian released her from his solid warm embrace. It had been very comfortable. However, as her limbs were not under control, she could do very little as her maid coaxed her out of the dining hall and into the bridal chamber.

She could remember very little of it, but there seemed to be a lot of stumbling. Sometimes, she heard fabric rip, and she giggled when Heloise cursed under her breath. It was rather novel to hear a woman cuss instead of a man. At last, she all but crumpled onto the wide expanse of the canopy bed. She gave a contented sigh, unaware of the dilemma which Heloise was in.

The maid wrung her hands as she took in her mistress' inebriated state. Did Lord Balian want her to sober Agnes up, or did he mean take her to the bedroom and supervise her so that she didn't do anything ridiculous? Either way, the story of this wedding was probably going to be spoken of as a joke for the years to come. To top it all, the bride got drunk on her wedding night.

* * *

Dawn. Most of Minas Tirith was sleeping, for they were tired from the merry-making. And the drink had been plentiful. A scream coming from the citadel shattered the silence. Even though their captain was more than just inebriated, the Gondorian Elite Guards were as alert as they always were. They rushed to the source of the scream, only to find a very embarrassed newly-wed couple.

"I forgot..." whispered Agnes. Her face felt as if it was on fire. She had woken up in a strange room to find someone sleeping on a nearby chair, and that someone had not been Heloise.

"The bride who forgot she was married," said Legolas, smirking. Even though his sense of hearing had been reduced, he'd been able to hear that scream quite clearly, and he found it quite amusing. Too bad the others weren't awake to enjoy it. Only Elladan was with him, and the son of Elrond, having been brought up by a kind and gracious elf-lord, was trying to keep a straight face. The prince of Eryn Lasgalen assumed that it was all part of his courtly training. He had no such qualms. After all, he and Balian had been through what he thought of as the Void together, so a little teasing was very reasonable. "Balian must have done a very good job on his wedding night."

"Oh, shut it," muttered the man, who was no less embarrassed than his wife. At least Jack was not there to make the obligatory eunuch jokes.

"I'm so sorry," Agnes said, again. She hadn't stopped apologizing, and she didn't look like she was going to stop any time soon.

"I understand," Balian assured her, even though he didn't. She'd spent days with him in a dark dungeon, hadn't she? She'd even held him as he had slept or fallen unconscious from his ordeals, so why was finding him sleeping in a chair which was a few yards from the bed shocking to her? "Do you have headache?" he asked, in an attempt to change the subject. It seemed as if all of Gondor had gathered to watch the show —every single person present was smirking— and he didn't like it. Agnes nodded. "I'll send for some willowbark tea. That will make things better."

"Thank you," she whispered.

"Now, why don't you go and lie down?" he suggested, all the while giving his audience pointed looks. The Gondorian Elite Guards and Elladan took the hint. Legolas noticed it and ignored it.

"Are you certain that you don't need a chaperone?" he asked.

"Legolas, go _away_," said Balian through gritted teeth. "Please," he added as an afterthought.

"Well, since you asked so nicely, perhaps I should go and fetch Aragorn," said the elf. "He should know some very good remedies for shock."

"Legolas, I swear, if you tell anyone else about this—"

"My dear friend, I don't need to tell anyone about it. The entire city probably heard your wife and is wondering about what you were doing to her to make her scream like that. I suggest that you think of a good story, and quickly. Otherwise, the gossips will do it for you."

"Christ!" Balian rubbed his face with his hand. Who knew that getting married was such hard work? "Legolas, you have to help me think of an explanation that won't embarrass either Agnes or me. I'm not a creative man; I can't do this."

"You're not creative?" Legolas raised an eyebrow. "I recall knowing someone who designs fortifications and siege engines."

"Those are mechanical! Methodical! Rational! Simple!"

"I wouldn't say that machinery that's built to kill is rational and simple," said Legolas. "Now, this cover-up story that I have in mind is so simple that even you will be able to understand it."

"Hurry up and tell me!" pleaded Balian, not even bothering to bristle at the insult.

"Just tell them that Agnes had a nightmare."

* * *

The madness died down after a few days as everyone settled into this new arrangement. With the merry-making over, Legolas began to slip back into his bouts of melancholy. Acceptance was one thing; getting used to his ailment was another. He'd spent three thousand years with superior senses to everyone except those of his own kind, and it took a lot of adjusting. He still hadn't managed to do that yet.

For him, going outside was torture, for he could not hear the whisper of breezes as they flew over far away fields, and he would rather not be reminded of his loss. He lay sprawled on one of the vast couches in his own chambers, listlessly staring up at the sky, thinking how far away it was. The birds were no more than tiny little dots against a backdrop of clear blue, but even that seemed grey. Legolas closed his eyes and breathed out. He felt half alive at times like these. The world was beautiful, but he could not admire it enough to do it justice. He missed being able to hear the voices of the trees. And he had a headache. Perhaps this was one of those 'colds' which mortals seemed to get all the time. As if to prove that assumption, he sneezed.

"Disgusting," he muttered as he wiped his hands on his tunic. He would much rather be fighting orcs than fighting colds. Then he remembered that his speed and aim had been much diminished, as had his strength. If he went out to hunt orcs now, he would probably get killed in very little time. Instead of him rescuing someone, he would be the one in need of rescuing. As that realization dawned on him, he began cursing in very colourful language in every tongue he knew. He only knew a few dwarven curses, but recently, he had been gravitating towards a few choice phrases which his pirate friends often employed.

Someone behind him coughed, startling him. "'Scuse me," said Jack. "I knocked on the door, but you couldn't hear me. I'll come back later, shall I?" He grinned as he spoke. Apparently, neither Legolas' depression, nor anyone else's, could affect his good mood.

"Come in, Jack," said Legolas. "I'm not doing anything."

"Didn't sound that way, but I'll pretend I didn't hear anything." The pirate kicked the door close. "You're lucky it wasn't Lizzie, or worse, Andromache, who caught you."

"You didn't come to tell me off about swearing, did you?"

"Of course not," said Jack with a sniff. Legolas also sniffed, for an entirely different reason. The elf decided very quickly that he hated colds, and if he ever got better, he would never tease his mortal friends about them again. Jack waved something in the elf's face. It seemed to be a circle made out of many slivers of something tough, hard and fibrous which had been tied together by string.

"What's this?" he asked, trying to catch it before Jack took out his eye with it.

"This, my friend, is bamboo," said Jack, taking his time in getting to the point. He liked to show off his expansive knowledge. "Better yet, it's a map drawn on bamboo, savvy?" He spread out said map on one of the low tables and beckoned to Legolas. The elf leaned forwards. It was the strangest map he'd ever seen. There were painted ships and strange angular symbols which looked as if they were pictures of something.

"That's Chinese," said Jack. "Don't worry; I can't read it either." The map itself seemed to be composed of five concentric circles. Jack fiddled with those until they formed another image. The pirate gleefully pointed at another line of symbols, different from the 'Chinese' ones. "That, mate, is Latin, which I _can_ read."

"What does it say?" asked Legolas.

"It says 'Aqua de Vida', which, when translated, means the 'water of life'," said Jack. He crossed his arms in satisfaction, looking very pleased with himself. "This, pointy-ear, will be your salvation."

"I don't understand," said Legolas, glancing up at him.

"Mate, did that poison kill your brain too? Oh well, doesn't matter, because Captain Jack Sparrow is here."

"Jack," said Legolas. "What is your point? I know that water symbolizes life."

"No, no," said Jack. "This ain't a symbolic meaning at all! This 'water of life' means 'Fountain of Youth'. He who drinks from this fountain gets eternal life, savvy? All we need to do is find this fountain, drink from it, and you'll be back to your old sarcastic snobby self. That sounds good, eh?" He spread his arms to indicate the vast potential of this venture. Legolas simply stared at him. And then, the elf genuinely smiled.

"Jack, you are brilliant," he said.

"Aren't I always?" said the pirate. "It's not like I need you to tell me. Anyway, I figured that out, and you're the first one I told."

Legolas raced off to pass the idea to Aragorn —and also to ask for medication which would ease the symptoms of his cold. Jack rubbed his hands.

"The immortal Captain Jack Sparrow," he said, cocking his head to one side. "I like the sound of that. I _really_ like the sound of that."

* * *

**Epilogue**

He flipped open the newspaper. A steaming cup of coffee sat on the glass-topped table beside him. French Roast, specially imported from France. A rich man like him could afford little luxuries. He picked up the cup and took a sip. Fragrant, bitter and strong; just the way he liked it. He would have to give the housekeeper a bonus. She made the best coffee he had ever tasted.

The huge headline caught his eye. It was impossible not to see it. Instead of the usual sort of news about Israeli missiles hitting refugee camps in Gaza, or US troops getting attacked in Baghdad by militants, the bold print read, 'Submarine Locates Shining Stone on Seabed.' It was complete with a picture of said stone. In his shock, he spilled hot coffee all over his lap. Balian leapt to his feet. His face was pale. It couldn't be. After all these years, it had resurfaced to haunt him.

The Irminsul had returned to the world of Men.

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks to everyone for sticking with me. Can you believe that it's been over two years since I first began the _Chance Encounter_ series? I couldn't have done it without your encouragement. I'm going to miss working on this fic, but don't get too sad yet, because even as I type this, the plot-bunnies are working madly, and if all goes according to plan, this series might end up gettng two more instalments--just not immediately.

On another note, I'll have to break a two year tradition of updating every Friday, because during the week beginning on Monday 26 January, I'll be away at a medieval themed camp, and thus unable to post. I'll come back on Friday 6 February with my latest crossover, _It's an Odd Coincidence_. See you then!

**Meh: **If you're reading this, then I'll have to say you gave me quite a laugh. It's quite something for someone who can't even capitalize their sentences to call someone's writing an epic fail. If you're going to flame, then I advise you to do so with correct punctuation. By the way, there _will_ be another crossover. I guarantee it. By the way, thanks for the review and for reading, even if you did hate all four instalments, each a hundred thousand words or so long.


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